


Egg in Hand

by bluestonearcher



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Action/Adventure, Doctor/Patient, Dubious Science, Gen, Medical Trauma, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 82,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3086483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestonearcher/pseuds/bluestonearcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on their exploratory mission, the Enterprise intercepts the molten husk of a prototype warp ship, with one surviving crew member. Bones finds his arms full, while Jim and Spock work to find out where the ship came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, as noted by a couple friends, AO3 is a bit more reader-friendly than the places I've been posting previously, so I'm going to try cross posting here as well.  So this'll be my New Years gift to you guys, and my resolution to myself?  Actually finish some of my favorite fics! haha.  And on that note...

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of the Star Trek franchise and make no profit from this work, only a bit of enjoyment from the writing.

 

* * *

 

McCoy worked the dermal regenerator over yet another red-shirted klutz. How Scotty hadn't worked through the lot of his subordinates yet, or scared them until they requested transfer to another ship, was beyond him.

“Just about... done. There. Nurse Chapel, would you be so kind?”

She took the regenerator and offered him his medical tricorder to double check results. Rats. Missed a spot. And knowing this particular vain ensign, McCoy would be serving up a cocktail of antidepressant hypos for a year if there one was bit of scar tissue left on his porcelain face.

“ _ Bridge to Doctor McCoy, please respond. _ ”

“Nurse, if you could get that,” Leonard grumbled while picking at the stubborn spot over the man's cheek. “I have my hands full.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Young, fit, girl-next-door beautiful, and her chipper spirit unflappable, whether facing off plagues, fires, or even vain engineers. One couldn't deny she had a certain appeal, and if he were the kind of man to break regs, well, those kind of regs, he'd have already asked her out to coffee. As it is, in such close quarters, and the occasional subspace message from his divorce lawyer still chasing him down this far away from Earth, he couldn't get up the gumption if he wanted to. Chapel's hand fluttered over the comm unit on the wall before pressing the button to answer the hail.

“Nurse Chapel here. The Doctor is busy with-”

“ _ Tell him to finish up. We've just received a distress call. I want him up here on the bridge. Lieutenant Uhura is having some difficulty with the UT. We've got no idea what we're going to be facing. _ ”

“Aye, Captain,” McCoy shouted to be heard from the biobed. “Just finishing up a quick-”

“ _ Now, Bones.” _

The doctor let out a frustrated huff as the comm closed down.

“Do you think you can finish this up, Nurse Chapel? Sounds like the Captain's gotten himself in a pickle.”

“Of course, Doct-”

“No! You can't leave me in the hands of a simple nurse!”

“That's enough, Ensign Jacobson! It's just a little dermal regeneration at this point, and Nurse Chapel is more than qualified. If there are any reoccurring issues, we can always do corrective surgery.”

_ Blasted children. I can already tell you're going to be one of those ones asking for cosmetic surgery for each new wrinkle and line on that flawless face. _

He sighed, slipping out of his scrubs while Chapel changed her gloves and took over.

“If you need to sedate him for the rest, I won't blame you,” he whispered to the more than competent nurse, before heading to the turbolift.

The quiet hum of the lift broke into the harnessed chaos of the bridge. He hovered around the door, listening in to Uhura's responses.

“So? What's the hoopdela?”

She flicked her eyes up to him, then over to the Captain.

“Jim?”

“Hmm? Sorry,” the big blond said from where he bent over Spock's viewer. The hobgoblin nowhere to be seen. “Uhura, put that line back up, will you?”

“Aye, Captain.” She flipped a few switches, and a variety of voices overtook the din of the bridge. Leonard flinched at the volume.

“Don't understand a word of it.”

“I turned off the UT,” Uhura grumbled. “The signal was overloading the computer.”

“Sensor's still down,” Pavel Chekov grumbled from his station. “Scotty vorking to wepair as ve speak.”

“Aye. Signal is cycling through twelve different languages. The translator was programmed for five of them.  The rest are garbling the system. The signal goes through all of the messages and starts right at the beginning again.”

“Are they all saying the same thing?” McCoy guessed.

“That's what Spock thought at first, but the ones the UT could handle are each different. It's like they're working off of an incomplete language database.”

“And where would our walking computer be now?”

“Asswisting wit sensor wepairs, sir,” Chekov supplied helpfully.

“How do we know its not some plot to incapacitate us, hm?” McCoy suggested.

The Captain rolled his eyes and grinned. “It overloaded sensors, not everything else. We've still got weapons, engines, and deflector shields. Don't be so pessimistic, Bones. We just need a direction to head in.”

“So, what did all these disruptive messages have to say?”

“'Urgent' was the most common word, occurring in all of them,” Uhura replied, flipping off the audible signal again. “Two instances of 'life support,' three either referencing 'fire' or 'plasma.' There's reference to the Ratarian god of death. Pleas for 'help,' 'assistance,' or 'aid' in all that we can decipher.”

“God of death?” McCoy repeated dumbly.

“It might be a metaphor, Bones,” the Captain said with a switch to retract Spock's viewer. “There's also a couple words about water, or a river.”

“So, no idea what's happened? How many injured?”

“Or where they are.”

“ _ Engineering to Bridge, _ ”  a disembodied even voice called over the comm.

“Yes Spock?” Jim replied after a quick flick of a switch.

“ _ I believe I've successfully rerouted power from impulse engines to sensors, using the deflector dish to collect-” _ McCoy phased out a little bit while the Vulcan spoke.  _ Couldn't the hobgoblin just say, “Hey, I think I fixed it. Give it a shot while I'm down here, will ya?” _ But, then again, “simple” isn’t a component in Vulcan DNA.

“Send out those probes, will you Chekov? Getting a triangulation with just the deflector dish is going to be damn near impossible.”

“Heow meany Keptin?”

“ _ Two will be sufficient, Ensign, _ ”  Spock answered for Jim over the comm. A few more buttons and switches and two bright lights shot out in separate directions on the main viewer.

The whole bridge went silent as they waited for-

“Telemetry coming in, Captain.” Uhura pressed her earpiece close, habit warding off extraneous noise even while everyone kept quiet around her. “I've got a location now. Over a light year away. Heading one-hundred and five mark forty-seven.”

Jim grinned in his usual shit-eating way.

“Make a course, Sulu. Warp six-point-five. Get us there yesterday. Shields up too. We don't know what we're going to be facing.”

“What'll that be, Jim? Two days?”

“ One  _ point two two eight- _ ”  McCoy flipped the comm panel to Engineering off, silencing the Vulcan and earning a smirk from the Captain.

“Well I guess we don't need you quite yet after all, Bones. Shall we give you a call when we get close enough for sensors to pick up our friends?”

“Mm.”

“Alright, alright, back to your sickbay. Sorry to have bothered you.”

McCoy nodded a little, turning his back on the chaos that had taken over the bridge.

“Send a message along to Starfleet, would you Lieutenant? Let them know we're responding to a distress call of unknown origin. And the coordinates. Oh, and Bones.” McCoy turned one last time. “Meet me in the mess for dinner, would you? Hopefully I'll have some more details to brief you with.”

“Sure, Jim.”

He felt a bit of a smile tug at his lips before stepping back into the turbolift and selecting the floor for his sickbay.

A whole  _ light year,  _ the distance echoed in his mind.  _ A distress call that could knock out a sensor array from that distance... not exactly a good sign. _

The floor settled and he returned to his office. Chapel had the place cleared of idiotic engineers. A curious expression on her face; polite enough that the blonde wouldn't ask.

He sighed. Might as well tell her, she'd probably be the one assisting with most of it.

“Looks like we have our first general distress call, Nurse. There's been some computer disruption, so I'd like to get some kits ready to go. If we end up having to organize a boarding party, I want every medical officer prepared for whatever it is we're going to find over there.”

“Of course, Doctor McCoy.”

Thankfully,  _ Probably because of the Vulcan down in the deep _ , no more of Scotty's minions found their way up to medical the rest of the day.

  
  
  


 


	2. Chapter 2

A day and a half later, McCoy refused to use decimal places anywhere that didn't use a base-ten system, _Really, what bloody idiot would take the time to figure out point two two eight of twenty four- nevermind,_ the good Doctor stood on the bridge, waiting with the rest of the crew to get close enough for visual.

Between Spock and Scotty, they'd gotten enough of the sensors up to work out the basics of the ship. Well, “basic” as far as the computer-banks had no clue. No record of a similar configuration. Distress beacon still going. No other ships in the area. Stuck far between two star systems with nothing close to an M-class planet within days travel at low warp. No chance for a safe emergency landing.  No one near by to come to the rescue.  Other than one Constitution class starship with sensors so full of data from this wreck she couldn’t see the stars in the dark.

“Sensor's showing critical damage across all systems,” Spock said from his place, face-down in his viewer. “Reading areas approaching thirteen-hundred Kelvin.”

“Shields? Lifesigns? Any other vessels?”

“No other wessels within sensor range, sir,” Chekov reported.

“Possible lifesigns...” Spock ruminated. “Difficult to tell with the interference.”

“No way I'm letting any of my medical teams onboard with that heat,” McCoy grumbled. “Not even Spock's green blood could handle that.”

“Considering it is fifty-seven point seven-seven degrees from the boiling point of copper, I have no inclination on going onboard either. Perhaps with your superior iron-based blood, with its boiling point of eighteen-hundred and eleven Kelvin, you would be better suited to going on the rescue team.”

McCoy pushed back the growl he felt threatening at the tilt of one sharp Vulcanian eyebrow.

“Can you hail them, Lieutenant?”

All eyes fell to Uhura.

“No, sir. I've been sending replies in every language in the Universal Translator for the past three hours.”

The bridge fell silent as a single small star on the viewer grew in size, resolving into nothing more than a glimmer of white in the dark.

To McCoy's inexperienced eye, the ship reminded him of a giant, white scarab beetle. The image only solidified by the shattered top layer, pulling away, with cracks of glowing heat shattering the surface. What very well could have been retractable wings, or a sail of some kind, peaked out from the carapace. Wreckage scattered in a comet's tail behind the disabled vehicle.

“No one could survive that, Jim.”

“It is logical to deduce that there are areas of the ship with supplementary shielding, Doctor. Otherwise there would be no way that the distress signal would persist for this long a duration.  Or their computers were designed to handle the higher heat.  If that is the case, it stands to reason that the beings within either are capable of handling a similar temperature, or that there is significant interior shielding.”

“If they're built for _that_ heat, transporting them to the sickbay might very well kill them,” McCoy mused.

“Well we've got to try,” Jim declared, stepping in between the two officers. “Chekov, are we within transporter range? If we can’t get a lock on remaining lifeforms and beam 'em over, there won't be much reason for all this fuss.”

“Aye, Keptin. Approaching now.”

“Head down to transporters. Care to join him, McCoy? Or do you want him to beam the survivors right to your office?”

“I'd rather walk them in on gurneys, thank you.”

Captain Kirk gave a curt nod, dismissing Chekov and McCoy.

“Jim, I had a thought. Mind if Uhura joins us? If anyone's got a chance or working out a language, it'll between her and the UT.”

He nodded again and the Lieutenant joined them in the turbolift down.

“Are you sure you can beam them onboard safely?” Uhura asked, once the lift doors were closed.

“Should be easy enough,” Chekov replied. “Stationary target. Wery easy, compared to what Kerk jumps lately.”

Uhura smirked.

As the lift steadily plummeted, McCoy took a moment to call to his teams, telling some to prep and others to meet him in the main transporter room with the gurneys.  He ordered the usual trauma kit and warned his teams to be ready for anything from cuts and bruises to radiation sickness and catastrophic decompression injuries.

Without fail, three beds lined the hallway leading up to the transporter room, four men and women standing at the ready in crisp, clean steriles for each hovering unit.  Ready and game for a bit of excitement.  A cursory glance as they passed told McCoy they’d loaded for bear; in a pinch, he’d probably be able to deliver an Amtherillerite right there.  He nodded his approval and followed the kid in.  Sensor data streamed down from the bridge, blinked red and orange across the screens and worrying the techs standing ready.

“Looks like only one alive,” Chekov said after a long look at the readings.

“Well then bring him aboard, by god.”

“I... yes, sir.”

The Doctor waited, watching while Chekov fought to capture a clear signal of the lone survivor.

“What's taking so blasted long?”

“Teough shields, sir. Having twouble getting through.”

“I thought those systems were down.”

“Physical shields, sir. Some ceramic-metal alloy. Iz disrupting ze signal. Give me a moment.”

Chekov hunched over the console, a study in complete concentration, but soon enough the transporter pad flared to life in its usual twinkle of light and pop of sound. One moment a blaze of light, the next, a charred ball of flesh, flailing and undulating on the pad.

“Damn!” The medical “switch” flicked on in his mind and McCoy rushed up to the creature. Tricorder at the ready, sensor sweeping over the writhing charred mass.

“Third and fourth degree burns throughout. Broken bones to the... extremities,” He didn't quite know if he should say “legs” or “arms” yet. Anyone this burned could be any kind of being.

He ached to administer painkillers, but he had no idea if there would be adverse reactions. The sad reality, with a burn victim this far gone, most of the pain-sensitive nerves would be deadened by now anyway.

One of the nurses handed him sterile gloves, which he dragged on and gently rotated the body, putting the creature on its back. A long groan of pain made him flinch.

“Let's get it up on the gurney. We need to begin debridement and start administering fluids stat. Watch for hypovolemia. Get fluids and plasma prepared. I want to do a deep scan before we give anything.”

The team surrounding the first gurney team moved as a smooth, well lubricated unit, moving the body up onto the hovering unit with minimal jostle and quickly falling to with their duties.

Chekov remained statue still, his eyes saucer large while they passed. “Go tell the Captain, kid,” McCoy groused. _Why the hell Starfleet let in a seventeen year old..._ He sighed and caught up with the swift parade moving towards the sickbay.

The communications officer stayed with them, leaning close to their patient, but careful not to touch. Or let her eyes wander for longer than a moment or two.

“Deep scans first,” McCoy decided. “We need to get saline, or the equivalent. Simmons, you get to work replicating plasma.”

“Aye, sir.” The young woman ran ahead to get the specialized scanner for that. First she'd need to collect a blood sample; if they could manage but a single drop they'd be able to replicate enough to hydrate the whole soul.

The sight of charred muscle and bone worried the doctor. Simmons had a challenge ahead of her finding that one drop intact.  Without excising past damaged issue, anyway, and they needed an option well before they got to that stage.

“Alright, Uhura. Get back up to the bridge,” McCoy declared, once they passed the sickbay doors. “Don't need another body in here getting in the way.”

“But... she's talking, Doctor.”

For a moment, McCoy could do nothing more than blink up in incomprehension.

“Talking?”

He looked down at his patient. He could hear breathing, who wouldn't? Sounded like the death rattle written for time immemorial throughout literature.

“Yes. Rotating languages, just like the distress call.”

“You mean, that was – him? – on the signal?”

“No, that one was a synthesized voice. This... it's a one word rotation. Ova. Eggs. Over and over, just the word egg or eggs or children.”

McCoy's eyebrows flew up to his hairline.

“Shit.”

His eyes flew over the charred body again. The way that the dorsal side had been burned to the bone, while the ventral... still burned to perdition, but just there, and there, small scraps of fabric, or skin, flecked the blackened flesh.

He flung off his gloves in a hurry and ran to the comm panel.

“McCoy to Captain Kirk!”

“ _What is it Bones? How's our guest?_ ” Apparently Chekov hadn't made it up yet.

“In a bad way, Jim. But Uhura says this one keeps mentioning children. And there's signs it was protecting something with it’s body. Spock, you said lifesigns weren't clear.”

Silence over the comms.

“Jim, you've got to get Chekov back to the transporter pad. If this thing's children are over there, unprotected-”

“ _I hear you, Bones. Get back on your patient. We'll come up with a solution. Don't worry._ ”

A medical alarm sent a cold thrill up his spine. He ran back to his patient without even pausing long enough to turn off the signal. He wrenched on a full body sterile suit and another pair of gloves. The triage medical team that had brought the wounded entity in had already switched out for one of the teams waiting.

Already in sterile suits and respirators, they moved the gurney into a tented area around biobed one. Everything sterile, right to the air. Even if they could get this poor thing through the first round of debridement, and hydration, shock, surgery after surgery of grafting and regeneration, there was every chance that infection from the slightest bug would do away with her... him... it.

“I'd... I'd like to stay close-by.”

McCoy glanced up at Uhura as he lifted the thin antimicrobial sheet to enter the tent. He frowned.

“I don't need some curious hanger-on.”

“I'm not... That's not it, Doctor McCoy. I just want to be helpful anyway I can. We still don't know the language. The best... the only thing I can do is try.”

He huffed and pointed toward the storage area. “Go scrub and suit up. Don't touch anything. Keep your respirator mask on.”

Uhura swallowed twice, her eyes stuck on his patient before snapping back to him. She nodded and went to follow his orders.

“Saline is non-toxic,” one doctor piped in. McCoy stepped up behind the young ensign, double checking his findings on the tricorder.  “Readings indicate higher concentration recommended, but the 300 mOsm/L we have on hand is within tolerances.”

“Find a vein and start hydration. Simmons! Any luck with the synthesizing?”

“The proteins are sequencing, sir. Another twenty-five minutes.”

McCoy groaned. “State of the art medical facilities and I'm stuck waiting for plasma.”

“At least we're not using maggots for debridement anymore.”

“M-m-maggots?”  All eyes flicked up to a pale-faced Uhura, then back to their patient.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” McCoy said. “They did a very good job, back in the day before medical scanners and the like. The little bugs only ate dead flesh. Left them to their work, they'd eat everything without blood flow, then a little hose down and you'd clean them all out and be left with nice pink flesh. The big downfall, other than making sure you had a fresh supply on hand when you needed them, is that they only eat organic materials. Here, I think we've got a bit of fabric here. Resistant stuff. Hydrate under that bit, would you?”

“Can't you give her something? Anything? With those moans, she’s got to be in a lot of pain.”

McCoy closed his eyes a moment. “Our guest is beyond a lot of that, Uhura.” He bent back to the excruciating work a moment longer before curiosity took him. “Still saying eggs?”

“Save the eggs,” she replied. “I think.”

Uhura's words seemed to increase the struggles. The doctors around the biobed all placed a gentle hand down on charred tissue, trying to still their patient without restrains. Struggling against hard cordage would make the wounds worse. A biobarrier would stop them from treating the poor broken body.

“Do you think you can tell our patent that we're trying to treat the wounds?”

“I don't....”

“Oh just talk to the thing. 'We're here to help,' or something else simple.”

She sighed and started a long string of various languages.

Simmons gasped.

McCoy moved up to where she stood.

Deep within the charred black mess, two pale yellow eyes flew open, pinned straight left, towards the communications offer. The groans reduced to a short, painful pant. After a few musical notes left Uhura's smooth lips, a strange, raspy note escaped their patient.

“What-”

“Eggs. Where are the eggs,” Uhura responded.

“Tell our guest we're working on it. And calm down.”

She grimaced. “I'll try.” Again, she whistled, a longer slower set of notes this time.

The charred body bucked; the responding twittering garbled, turned guttural.

“I'm sorry sir, it's not either of our languages,” she said, backing away so the doctors could take over. “I got 'Where are my-' before she switched again.”

“I believe you can tell your patient that they are here.”

McCoy tensed. Just outside of the foggy film that surrounded the biobed, Spock's silhouette hovered.

“Lieutenant?”

“A... Aye sir.”

Uhura's voice twilled out again, and this time none of the seven doctors could hold the body down. The blackened, broken thing shoved past the lot of them, tearing through the mesh as if it were nothing but tissue paper, revealing a Vulcan sheathed in a reflective radioactive shielding suit.

McCoy stood amazed as the creature snatched away... something from the Vulcan, before flinging him bodily away. The snarl that escaped those ruined lips did not need translation. Nor did the scream of pain before the body collapsed in on itself.

Every ounce of fatherhood in McCoy recognized that protectiveness, the way the creature fell down, yet around the container Spock had brought in. Protecting whatever laid beneath it with its crumpled, destroyed body.

McCoy approached, hands outstretched. His mind reeling at all the surface area, all that open wound touching, being contaminated by, the floor. _Carpet. Damn. How the hell did carpet get approved in a medical area? No way that could be sanitized properly._

“Easy, easy there. We're just trying to help. Let me take a look.”

McCoy glanced out of the corner of his eye at Uhura, desperate for her to translate. She cooed and twilled, pausing hard here and there, searching for the right word.

The creature snarled in return.

“I think she's saying something... but it's making no sense, sir. Something about fire from the sky, and water from metal. ...and the eggs of course.”

McCoy nodded. “Someone hand me my medical scanner.”

He felt the familiar metal and composite through his gloves. He lifted it to show it. “See? I'm just going to take a scan. Just like I did to you earlier. Just the same. It won't hurt them. I'll scan myself first, see?”

He ran the medical tricorder over himself, then the patient, before waving it over the small bit of the container he could see.

A haggard voice asked a question in a language none could decipher. Whatever it saw in McCoy's eyes, however, convinced it... or perhaps it was exhaustion causing the body to sink off to the side.

Regardless, McCoy reached in and scanned. And looked.

Eggs. They were indeed eggs. Each a bit bigger than his fist. The scanner meshed their lifeforms, unable to scan one at a time, unable to differentiate between them. No wonder they couldn't tell them from the adult during the initial scans.

“We need to take care of them. They're too hot. They're in distress.” He didn't want to say that some of them were already cooked. Not too much even a modern doctor can do for that.

“Robinson. Get Robinson, would you?” He shouted behind him.

“The OB/GYN?”

McCoy fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Did a damn good job of it too.

“Closest thing we're going to get, right now. Hurry!”

A couple of them scurried off. _Idiots. One screaming CMO and they forget they have comm channels throughout the ship._

Luckily, it seemed that most of his staff lollygagged in the adjacent rooms, waiting to see if they could be of assistance.

“Robinson, excellent. Get one of the incubators ready. Ninety-nine-point-five degrees.”

“That seems a tad extreme, Doctor,” he heard Spock say. McCoy didn't spare him a glance.

“Fahrenheit, Robinson. If you set that blasted incubator to ninety-nine Celsius or Kelvin I'll have you demoted to sanitation officer.”

“Of course, Chief,” the older man said with a smile.

McCoy waited, eyes still on his patient, while he heard the clatter of the incubator being set up behind him.

“There we go, all done. Why that temp?”

“Just a hunch, Robinson, just a hunch. Now, we've got to get your little ones in there, to cool off, okay? Your skin is full of heat and radiation. You've done a fine job protecting them up 'til now, but you've got to let us take care of them. You're doing them no good right now.”

Uhura'd long since given up translating. The uncomfortable silence of his entire medical team and half the bridge staff staring at him didn't help the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

Broken, battered, blackened hands, if they could be called that, clenched a moment, then released.

“There, that's it. Robinson, bring the incubator over here. Simmons, take the tricorder. Alright, I'm going to pick up your eggs, nice and slow. Robinson is going to take excellent care of them. And we'll keep the incubator nice and close, okay?”

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when McCoy finally slipped his hands between charred flesh and still steaming hot ceramic and came back with a blackened, cracked egg between his cupped palms.

“Thank you,” McCoy whispered. Not sure what he was thanking for... trust maybe?

He was grateful for his years of surgical experience as he transferred the ruined little egg to Robinson's gloved digits; even with adrenaline running rampant through his system, his hands didn't transfer a single tremor through to the delicate calcium shell.

The patient growled the moment the eggshell touched the new doctor.

“Okay, okay. I understand. It's okay if I touch, but not anyone else, hm? That's okay. Robinson, over to the far side, please? See if you can get a good individual scan in and close the lid between each one. Don't want the air chilling them too fast.”

He stood, tucking the dead little thing into the corner of the incubator, covering it with a fold of cloth.

McCoy retrieved each one, letting Robinson scan them while they were separate, watching the older man's eyes flick left, or right, telling him to place each egg on the side with the first dead one, or off to the right where the growing pile of live ones rested. Each he covered in a separate little cloth. Careful to cover injured parts, where he could.

Maternal, or paternal instincts, didn't matter. Protectiveness of young translated very well across species.

When the last of the little lives were safely in the incubator, McCoy nodded for Robinson to close the lid.

“Wait until their temperature has stabilized. And we've gotten this one back up on the table. I think having the incubator next to the biobed will keep our patient calm, don't you?”

Robinson grinned at him a moment. “Good idea.”

“Wait 'til we test my hypothesis before ya go pattin' me on the back, hmm? Come on kids, let's get our patient back up. We've got more sanitizing to do. And someone put getting this carpet up on the to-do list for the engineers! I can't believe I left it this long. They're in here often enough, they can do a bit of work too.”

While the other doctors worked to get their patient back in place, McCoy spared a glance at the Science Officer.

Still in the radiation suit, helmet off now, at least. If it wasn't for his green Vulcan blood, McCoy would've sworn he saw sweat glistening on that smooth, stiff upper lip.

“What happened to that being too dangerous for even Vulcan blood, hmm? Something about fifty degrees to copper's boiling point?”

“Fifty-seven point seven seven, Doctor. But as you suggested, it seems parts of the ship were more heavily shielded. After Chekov reported in about the health of your patient, I surmised that with additional shielding, I could attempt a beam in, for a considerably shorter duration, of course.”

“Mmhmm. Why does it sound like a rather illogical thing to do to me? Our first officer, on egg-retrieval.”

“Why Doctor. You of all people should know that of all the crew members, I am the most suited for a hot environment. And with first contact with an unknown space-faring species on the line, it was simply logical to do everything possible to instill a good first impression.”

“Of course, Mr. Spock. However could I have doubted you. Doctor Phillips? If you would be so good as to check over our green-blooded hero-”

“Doctor McCoy, your time would be better spent elsewhere, I am quite-”

“I agree. _My_ time is better spent elsewhere. That's why Phillips will look after you. On that note.”

He nodded his head in thanks to the Vulcan, and returned to his first patient.

Several off-duty doctors and nurses rallied around the chaos their patient had caused. Helping switch out sterile scrubs, gloves, respirators. Some reaching up and attaching a fresh sheet of bioscreening material. Others passing sanitizing radiant lights over every available surface that wasn't their patient, in an attempt to return everything to a clean state of being.

“Biobed one is too compromised. Do what you can, but get biobed two ready. I want to finish ventral debridement and move our patient over for dorsal. With the amount of damage, and foreign tissue, its quite possible we'll have to make the switch several times. Robinson, incubator up here please.”

The charred remains of their patient calmed the moment the glass tapped the side of the biobed.

“Careful there.”

“Aye, sorry. Not used to such delicate erm... patients.”

McCoy fought down a little smile. Robinson'd get his sights on newer and stranger things yet soon enough.

“Come on, everyone. Fast as we can.”

_Fast_ meant nothing, compared to accurate. Diligent. Persistent. Hour upon hour they methodically cleaned one square centimeter after another. They couldn't even begin regenerative efforts until the full damage had been ascertained. After the first hour, he was grateful that the eggs had been rescued. They seemed to bring a measure of peace to their patient. Or stubbornness.

They had to clean, and dig, and cut away until they revealed tender, live flesh. Not frequently enough, they found living nerve clusters, often by chance and with a sharp edge.

A sharp hiss of pain, a spike in the blood pressure, and a sharp glance to the eggs in their case were the sole response each time.

Quiet words of praise, complimenting strength or stamina, came to McCoy's lips. It felt strange having a conscious patient with no way to communicate. He felt a bit of shame with each chunk of flesh he had to bisect; each digit he had to remove. They could be regenerated later, but for now... for now, if he left one bit of dead flesh, it would turn to gangrene, and this poor shocked body would never recover. No immune system. Not with so much surface area destroyed.

Educated hands wrapped each exposed bit of flesh with a sterilized mesh weave, covering the opened wounds, holding moisture against the barren flesh, but not much past that yet.

Torturous hours later, a halo of blackened matter surrounded their patient. McCoy ached to begin treating now, do everything he could to begin the healing process, but this was just the beginning, the first half.

“We have to turn you over now,” McCoy said. Uhura appeared at his side, describing what they needed to do in the stuttering voice of someone who fought for each word she needed.

The skeletal face stared at them. Over an hour ago, McCoy had removed two sets of destroyed eyelids from the eyes that were still perfect in the horrific face. Serendipity had graced their patient with inner and outer lids, both blistered and charred now from radiation and open flames, but they'd served well to keep the delicate ocular organs protected. Lips, cheeks, every bit of soft flesh but those eyes gone now. Worse on the right side. As if someone had hit the poor creature with a water balloon filled with acid. Removing the bone-matter from that side of the face had been hardest. Some sections so damaged that even the marrow, the delicate spongy calcium in the nasal passages, had to be removed with a laser scalpel.

Their patient couldn't even speak now. Couldn't ask for clarification. The occasional groan or hiss the sole accompaniment to the dry rattle of breath. McCoy'd removed his patient's tongue just before the laser scalpel of a fellow doctor slipped away the ventral side of the vocal cords.

One hand reached out towards them. Two digits remained on that hand. McCoy hesitated in completing the amputation of the other. It was done. Well done. No chance at recovery, but the fine webbing of exposed nerves held him off for now.

Those two fingers, wrapped in that composite weave, touched McCoy's palm, the tap of solid bone against his meaty, covered skin, before reaching for the incubator.

“Wait-” but McCoy stopped himself. If he were in this position, he knew that he'd assume every moment was his last. Hell, he'd hope it was his last. He'd probably be screaming for them to put him out of his misery by now.

“We'll take care of them. They're safe and sound. They're going to stay right by your side, even if you can't see them, okay?”

The sharp bones touched him again, before flopping on the biobed.

“Alright, come on everyone. Let's go ahead and move over to bio two while we're at it. Chapel, get bio one cleaned off and sanitized. We'll return to it for further treatment. Careful, careful. There.”

A dozen hands settled the decimated body down on the second bed, skilled hands rotating it mid-air, so that the clean ventral surface wouldn't be contaminated by the remains on the first.

A long, painful groan stopped everyone in their tracks.

“Robinson. The eggs, quickly.”

The doctor wheeled the incubator around as quickly as he could without jostling them. Brought it close enough that the ruined hand could reach out and touch the smooth glass again.

With a sigh, their patient relaxed onto the smooth surface of the bed. The others flocked and fretted, but McCoy smiled. He had his eyes on the scanner's display panel above their patient's head.

“Asleep. Okay folks, work harder. Probably won't get much time like this. Robinson, what treatment plans do you have for the little ones?”

“External temps have stabilized enough to start weighing in on treatments. Radiation poisoning is the main concern. ...Any ideas on how to deal with that through a hard bit of calcium?”

“Take a look in the Denobulan database on my private terminal. I know I've seen something in there, but I've got my hands full.  I’m remembering a detoxing wash… for beta level burns and physical fire. The customary hyronaline treatment should work just fine for our adult patient, but the eggs, I'm not so sure about. They might have been shielded enough that as long as we give them time to outgas... they'll hatch alright.”

“I'll go take a look.”

McCoy nodded him off, his mind more interested in the mess over the patient's back. Large sections blistered and crumbled away at the first touch. A boon and a pain, since it meant that every blister that crumbled left a million tiny particles in its place.

He fought the urge to flay the body down to the bone. He'd end up doing as much anyway, but he needed to save as much of the tissue as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

Seventeen hours of continuous surgery later, the wounds were all clean and open. Modified saline and regenerated plasma flowed in and out. Extraneous personnel disappeared after the patient was turned upright once again. Not being able to tell if the person were awake, or asleep, what with no eyelids bothered most of them.

Truthfully, McCoy couldn't blame them.

He'd sent the whole team away once they did their best to make their guest comfortable. Not much more than covering all the wounds in dry, silver nitrate impregnated bandaging and slipping in pads of cotton gauze under the naked bone of the back to make lying in the firm medical bed a bit more comfortable.

Chapel urged him to eat, to sleep but... hell. He might be exhausted, but he couldn't help but being amped up. Once a couple of the others from the debridement team came back from the breaks he'd ordered them all to take, he'd at least take the time for a meal.

As it was, he didn't want to waste the time on a snack just to go through the half-hour long process of getting sterile again after. His back ached from being bent over for so long, his fingers cramped from keeping every movement smooth and subtle for hours.

If McCoy were going to take a break, he'd at least need a long, hot shower, a good meal, and at least two hours of sleep to even pretend to be sane.

Robinson left him too. He'd done all he could for the little ones. Washing them in a solution the database supplied, intended for infants. They'd tested it on one of the cooked eggs first, pleased with the results after they scanned it for radiation. Even as far gone as the first dead one was, the solution removed ninety-five percent of the scannable markers.

They'd carefully washed the rest. Robinson wanted to soak the whole lot, but McCoy didn't want to chance interrupting the delicate air sack within each.

“Seems you know a lot about these eggs,” Robinson had noted, about six eggs in.

“Don't know about you, but I had my chicken eggs to hatch when I was a kid. Even got a few Denobulan wailing bat eggs too, once I was old enough for the permit. Across the board, doesn't matter what kind of eggs, there are some rules. Ninety-nine-point-five, keep the air sack up, don't shake... you know, the basics.”

“What, you don't want scrambled eggs?”

McCoy frowned at him. “Don't even joke. These are children.”

“Fetuses, if you're going to be making correlations. And I can't tell you how many roller-coaster rides my wife took while pregnant.”

McCoy felt an eyebrow go up in a very Spock-like gesture, before he could slam it back down.

“And you're an OB/GYN?”

“Some crave pickle ice cream, mine craved adrenaline. I'm just glad I talked her out of skydiving and bungee jumping.”

Now, nothing but the quiet beeps of the monitor, and the hiss of pure oxygen flowing into burned lungs, interrupted the silence.

Well, that and the timer he'd had Chapel set up for him. Every four hours, a quiet beep sounded in his office.

McCoy pushed off of where he'd been leaning against the biobed and headed for the incubator. He checked temperature, humidity, color, before opening the cover. With calm, smooth movements, he systematically rotated each egg a quarter of a turn. If they were his leghorns back home, he'd be doing a half rotation, along with plucking the ones from the center, put them to the outside, and bring the rest in, so that no “hot spots” would develop. With state-of-the-art Federation technology, he didn't have much of that to worry about... and he wanted to be able to pick out which of the eggs bore visible cracks. Three were beyond salvage, another couple cooked right through. Robinson had patched two more. They'd been cracked, but their membranes not breached yet.

With luck, the medical plaster they'd decided on would keep those little spider cracks along the surface sealed up tight, without setting chaos to the delicate balances.

Some subtle shift in the atmosphere caused the CMO to look up at his patient. The unblinkable eyes were focused on him again.

“Just another couple to rotate, then I'll check on you.”

Once he finished, and had the lid back in place, he pushed the whole box up close, so his patient could peer in. If he tilted it _just so_ those bright eyes wouldn't see the troubles within the nest. With so much physical shock, an emotional one didn't need to be added in to the mess.

“Uhura is working on updating our Universal Translator for you,” McCoy said, standing near by, but not wanting to get in the way. “As long as nothing else goes wrong, soon we'll be able to talk to one another.” _Once you have lips, tongue, and larynx again._ “Until then, I'm going to make sure you're not alone. A doctor and nurse will be here to keep you company at all times. Nothing like being stuck in a hospital with nothing but the ceiling to stare at to drive a man... or woman, I suppose... batty.

“I wonder which you are,” he mused out loud a moment, before looking around guiltily. External versus internal didn't count for much in the grand scheme of things. Hell, even Vulcans kept their boys inside. Even curled up over the eggs, certain areas had been burned off, then neatly trimmed away, and others the medical scanner couldn't quite read. All the extraneous radiation.

“We have tissue samples in the regenerators now,” he said conversationally.  Even without a language between them, a calm, friendly voice meant a lot in a place like this.. “I'm going to start with facial features, if you don't mind. Delicate, and small, so the cultures will grow faster. Relatively speaking of course. And we're going to need you able to articulate for Lieutenant Uhura to figure out your native language. Seems those bird whistles were a bit over her head. Well, that also might have been more having to watch your surgery happen.

“Burns are some of the hardest wounds to deal with. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, now.” He picked up a medical tricorder, scanning over the whole of his patient, checking for continued radiation burns. “That's the big problem, really. A contact burn, a thermal burn, a chemical burn, the damage they cause crops up right away.  We know exactly what we’re dealing with off the bat and can deal with the damage.  Radiation? Well that can take a week to develop. We might have you cleared out now, and more blisters will fill up with heat and burst through.  Which means more surgeries to remove that tissue as it happens. Even more reason to grow your replacement bits outside of you, for now.

“I just wish we had a better idea of what you looked like. Spock says your distress call petered out a few hours ago. The last of your computers melted in the heat. With that down, our sensors can now penetrate farther, well, as far as we can with all that radiation contaminating half a parsec in every direction. Engine melted to a slag heap, computers down to nothing too. If we had access to your databases.... Ah, well. We'll figure it out, won't we? Lips, tongue, and teeth first, hmm?”

The slow sweep of the tricorder pulled up at the pockmarked skull. McCoy sighed.

“I think I'm going to chance regenerating at bit of this now, at least. I might end up just cutting it all out again, but... hell, I shouldn't be able to see inside your nasal cavity like this.”

He picked up the handheld boneknitter unit, flashed the want over the back of his hand to show it didn't hurt – not that his patient could feel it at this point anyway – before raising it up. The calcium mesh twinned up together, flowing like water up and over each of the voids that had no point in being there. The portable unit couldn’t lay down full sheets of calcium - that machine he mostly used for large fractures or to reinforce large sheets of bone after traumatic injuries, like the time the last time a redshirt snapped half of his ribs during a airlock blowout and risked puncturing a lung with each breath.  But the artificial mesh served well enough.  In a healthy body, it laid groundwork for the patient’s own immune system to see a “minor injury” and heal it naturally by filling in the mesh with the body’s own calcium stores.  Back in his grandmother’s day, they’d replace lost bone tissue with DNA scrubbed coral - nearly identical in cellular structure and it supplied enough calcium so the body wouldn’t leech from elsewhere, causing more harm than good like the old bone transplants did.

“There we go, not much, but it's a start, hmm?”

The lower jaw worked a bit up and down, trying to communicate.

“Shh, it's okay. Try to keep calm. We're doing everything we can right now. What you need to do is stay calm and concentrate on healing.”

“ _Doctor McCoy?_ ”

He sighed. The comm panel again. _Would someone please design a wireless one? Please?_

With a frustrated huff, he made his excuses to his uncomprehending patient, stripped off his gloves, and headed out the sterile tenting.

“What is it?” He grumbled with more anger than he intended.

“Yeoman Duan here, sir. The Captain has scheduled a debriefing in twenty minutes.”

“Of course he has. Surprising he waited this long. Alright, I'll be up soon enough.”

With a few flicks of his own comm, he found a couple doctors with a little sleep under their belts to hold his station.

M'Benga gave him a bit of a wan smile.

“Feel up to dealing with our burn victim?” McCoy asked, waving his Vulcan expert into his office a moment.

He made a so-so movement with his hands. “The staff are already gossiping. It sounds like a pretty bad sight.”

McCoy sighed and nodded. “I'm going to post a restricted access, for the moment. The fewer people going in and out the better, and not just for reducing the chance of infection. Try to keep our friend calm, will you? Don't wheel the incubator too far away. Slow, calm speech.”

“Of course, sir.”

McCoy spent a few more minutes going over readings, copying more to his own PADD to take with him upstairs, before snagging a mask and waiting for a freshly sterilized M'Benga to lead the way back into the tent around biobed one.

“This is Doctor M'Benga,” McCoy introduced, to cover the startled gasp from his colleague. “I need to go report to my Captain, but I'll be back in time to do the next rotation on your eggs.”

He offered a smile with his eyes, unable to offer a reassuring touch without sterile clothes.

“Just keep our friend stable, and signal me if there's any trouble. I'll be down in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

M'Benga followed him back out, his eyes wide.

“That- I... I thought... it couldn't understand us.”

“He, or she, can't, as far as I can tell. But kindness is universal. Take a deep breath, get a shot from my cupboard if you have to, but keep close. We're far from out of the woods, Doctor.”

McCoy disposed of his mask on his way out. The sooner he left, the sooner he could return.

If only he could _talk_ with the poor creature.


	4. Chapter 4

“Bones,” Jim greeted him with a grin. The briefing room held the top members of the bridge staff, along with a couple others. McCoy's eyes passed over the screens littered with various images of the disintegrating ship and readouts of so many types and kinds he couldn't pick out a single string of data to decipher.

“Jim.”

“Come, sit. Chapel made me promise to make you eat while you were here,” he said with a grin, motioning to the platter of nutritious replicated food cubes sitting before his accustomed place.

McCoy glared first at him, then the celebration of color. “Why do I get the feeling this is payback for all the hyposprays I've had to administer the past couple months?”

Jim's not-at-all-innocent grin stood answer enough.

McCoy huffed, plucked up a handful of the barely appetizing, uniform chunks and stuffed them in his mouth.

“Alright, we're all here.”  Jim slapped his hands together, a bit to gleefully for McCoy’s tastes, and rubbed them while surveying the assembled officers.  “Spock! Why don't you start us off with your findings.”

The Vulcan gave a bare nod, queueing up a handful of videos to play on the screens while he spoke.

“As the last of their computers failed, there are no further deterrents to our systems. Mr. Scott and I have facilitated repairs to our scanners. Full readings are, however, impossible because of background radiation levels-”

“Your best assumptions then, Mr. Spock.”

“Of course, Captain. As you can here, here, and here,” He flicked a long finger up, indicating glowing points of heat. “The ships engines are destroyed. Based on the radiation levels alone, I believe that they were based on a nuclear energy source. Without systems to supply coolant, or an outlet for extraneous energy, the nuclear reaction created a... how did you put it Mr. Scott? A Snowball effect?”

The Scotsman nodded, solemnly. “Aye. like Chernobyl, Fukushima, or Indian Point. Best we can tell the engine suffered a complete meltdown, then internal shielding bounced all that energy back and forth around in there with no place to escape until the hull began to fracture from the stress. Here,” Scotty tapped a screen, zooming in on a portion of the ship, and switching the view to infrared, dialing back the sensitivity until they could see a range of colors, instead of intense, white heat. “Is where we think the cooling systems were. Large, empty tanks. As ye can see here, Captain, there's a tear in the hull, but none of the heat escaping like we see here, and here.” He highlighted these regions. “I think it might be a torpedo blast. Or the like. Metal is curved in, not out like ye'd think ye'd see in an internal explosion.”

Spock nodded again, shifting everyone's attention back on him. “If this were the cooling reservoir, then as the fluid escaped, there would be little chance of repair. Shutting down all systems might give a chance, but-”

“Leaving the pur bird dead in the water,” Scott pipped in.

“Quite.”

“So, why no escape pods?” Jim scanned through some of the visual light images. “Why stay in that oven and not escape?”

“No signs of a lifeboat, Captain,” Scott offered. “Not that we can tell much at this point, anyway, but I went over the scans with a fine toothed comb. No sections of the ship, that I can see, designed to detach with life support systems.”

Everyone contemplated in silence as each wallowed in their own pool of information. The computers placidly continuing to show their readouts, the snippets of video on loop.

“Any signs of other victims?” McCoy had to ask.

Mr. Scott shook his head. “No sir, not that we could see. But if anyone was caught close by, they could be burnt to a crisp by now. Two _days_ we took to get to these pur people. Who knows how many lost in the mean time.”

“Once that ship cools down enough, I want a thorough search of the whole thing.”

Scott and Spock exchanged one of those looks. “Captain, I realize your people haven't used nuclear power for two centuries, but that is no excuse for the oversight. Even if there was a way to cool the rods, if one assumes they were using uranium as your people once did, cooling it with mechanical pumps and fresh water until they were cool enough to handle would take years. The Enterprise does not have that much fresh water to spare.”

“So... what do we do with the ship?”

His first officer quirked an eyebrow. “There is not much we can do, Captain. The distress beacon has not drawn any of its own people, we can surmise that we are far away from wherever its point of origin is. With a nuclear engine, rather than a matter-antimatter warp drive, it might have been in space for a very long time.”

“What if,” Uhura spoke up. “We use our tractor beam?”

“What, and tug along that slagged piece of metal along behind us while we continue our mission?”

She refused to back down to Sulu's incredulous blurt.

“It's her home, Jim. Not much left of it, but we don't know what the living quarters are like. Something might still be salvageable. How would you feel if Enterprise went up in smoke and you got rescued by some passing ship of strangers? Would you want them to just leave your ship behind and drag you off to who-knows-where?”

“ _Her_ home?” Jim asked, looking at McCoy for clarification.

“My patient's species isn't something we've encountered before,” McCoy replied. “No real evidence for male or female, at this point in recovery. There's a...” _How to explain a cloaca without the conversation taking a very strange turn, especially while trying to keep his patient's privacy?_ “certain level of non-gender specific material. For all we know, the species could have both sets of plumbing.”

“But her eggs?”

McCoy smiled. “Women aren't the only ones who care for their young. And as Mr. Scott just pointed out, there might be remains on the ship we can't detect right now. No telling that they’re even biological relatives; it’s not unheard of to have a stranger jump in front of a bus to save a baby in a stroller.”

The Captain weighed things himself for a few moments. “Mr. Scott, would it be possible to tug along that ship?”

“It's small enough. We couldn't bring it into the warp field until the radiation levels evened out.”

“And how long 'til your patient is well enough to tell me where she, or he, is from? I'd feel a lot better if we were delivering the whole parcel back to its own people.”

“That's going to be a bit more... complicated, Jim.”

He heard Uhura swallow audibly. McCoy spared her a glance, before giving his report. He described the wounds with as little detail as possible, in deference to the delicate stomachs in the room.

Of course Jim looked the greenest of the lot.

“The details of the your treatment plan, while I am sure are very fascinating,” Spock interrupted, “Are not very pertinent for this meeting. Perhaps you had best inform us about what you've deduced about the patient.”

McCoy nodded, glad enough to change the subject. “Not mammalian, of course. Two eyes, four limbs in the regular configuration.” He had to work to not take notice of Spock's lifted eyebrow. “Regular for us, you green-blooded.... What I'm trying to say, is not all that different, in the grand scheme of things.”

“The face doesn't look all that 'regular' to me,” Uhura added.

“What do you me-” Jim croaked to a stop as McCoy brought up a medical status photo. “Oh god.”

“I've done some preliminary bone regeneration since this was taken, but considering the circumstances I will keep a detailed record of the progress, until we find this specie's own doctors.”

Unlike the rest of the bridge staff, Spock studied the photo, rather than cringed away, or stare gape mouthed. Without the usual humanoid emotional expressions, none could guess what ticked inside that funny skull.

“Forward facing eyes speaks of predator ancestry. Have you done a scan to check for ratio of cones to rods?” McCoy shook his head at Spock’s question.  “I recommend it when your patient is more stable.  Longer face that I remember from when your patient assailed me earlier. Dentition would suggest primarily carnivorous diet. Lungs, I assume?”

McCoy nodded. “Yes. With thickened valves and parabronchi, for lack of a better comparison. The atria are at perhaps eighty percent intact. It looks like a set of valves right before the lungs closed off, like the human gag reflex, keeping most of the damage up in the throat. I'd say that this species shares more similarities to Earth birds, if you'd like an easy comparison. Four lung sets, organized to absorb oxygen on both inhalation and exhalation. The trachea was damaged beyond repair, but the lungs themselves are in amazingly good shape, considering.”

“Perhaps due to having eight lungs. Were the first set effected by the fire to a greater degree than the others?” McCoy nodded. “Fascinating. So, a space faring avian. Primitive engine. Weak shields, if any. I believe, Captain, that we have enough information to begin a search. We need to investigate within this immediate vicinity for a class M planet, most likely either covered in water and dotted with islands, or rain forests and mountains. Might I suggest a search pattern?”

At the captain's nod Spock bent over the computer, pulling up star charts and beginning to plot out the most efficient path to start.

“I would suggest leaving the stranded ship here, so we can achieve warp speeds,” he stated without inflection. “Perhaps a buoy system, to warn any approaching ships that it is too dangerous to approach?”

As he, the Captain, and Scotty started discussing details, Uhura turned to him.

“I haven't been able to get anything worked out with the UT yet.”

“I've excised enough tissue now that it wouldn't be much help anyway. No chance understanding someone without a voice box.”

She frowned a bit, then brightened up again.

“An even better idea. She's... still got fingers, right?”

McCoy nodded.

“Give me a few hours. I know just the thing.”

In a few minutes the meeting dissolved informally as each crew member fell into their own area.

“Jim?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry Bones. Dismissed. I'm sure you want to get back to your patient. We'll get her sorted.”

McCoy opened his mouth to object to the pronoun again, then dismissed it. _Who knows, Uhura might be right._

He picked up his various PADDs, stood with a groan, and headed out to the mess. Might as well get a real meal while he could.


	5. Chapter 5

He found himself yawning on his way back into his office. The three mugs of coffee he'd guzzled over his steak and salad kept his eyelids up, but little else. Thirty hours awake now. _McCoy, you're not a young man anymore. How many times have you berated everyone else for not taking care of themselves, hm?_

Before he got caught up again in the needs of his patient, he took a moment to himself to send out several subspace messages to colleagues on other ships, stations, back home. Anyone who might have a suggestion over treatment. Specialists in xenobiology, burn wounds, radiation treatment... and after a thought, he sent out one last message to a veterinarian that he dated back before the bitch ex-wife. She specialized in farm animal reproduction, no help there, but she'd have connections to folks who might be of help.

McCoy bumped into Uhura on the way out to get clean scrubs on.

“Lieutenant.”

“Doctor.” Uhura's eyes crinkled in a suppressed smile, her hands flitted like butterflies over a PADD. “I've got my idea. Here.”

She handed it to him; looked like any other tablet he'd seen. He tipped it back and forth, then handed it back. “Okay. I give, what is it?”

“We don't know her language, she doesn't know ours. And she can't speak right now, anyway, so I've pulled some program from our archives, modified them some. Here.”

She flipped it on, poked through a bit, until a variety of pictures cropped up. In the computer's usual placid voice, words, then sentences formed around the pictures it showed.

“And, better yet,” she snapped a picture of him with the camera on the PADD, flipped it so he could see his own likeness. “Doctor Leonard McCoy,” she told the PADD, which it recorded, then played back. “It'll let her select whatever she takes a picture of. If the database doesn't have the word already, then she can show us and we'll supply it for her.”

“You're thinking of teaching our patient Standard?”

“Or, she can flip through the pictures and indicate what she needs. Spock figured that an associative algorithm would be the most efficient, so it will start off by suggesting related words, which should help things I think. And once she can talk again, she can tell the computer whatever her words for things are, and then, Ta-Da! Our UT will be updated with her native language and she'll be able to tell us about-”

“Alright, Uhura, alright.” McCoy couldn't help but smile in the glow of her excitement. “Get Chapel to find a cover for it, then you can join me in the tent and we'll see if our patient has enough energy to give it a try. As it is, I don't want you to raise your hopes too high.”

He disappeared to scrub up and once again don his sterile surgical garb, glove and mask and all.

Inside the tent, he could see the strain on Doctor M'Benga and his patient alike. What surprised him, however, was the visible relief he saw writ all over his patient's bare flesh, the way the muscles turned slack in whatever asymmetrical manner they could accomplish.

“Hello again, my friend. I trust M'Benga hasn't been taxing you too far.”

“McCoy, I'm not sure I can handle-”

“It's alright, I understand. Go take a break. I'll be fine for a while.”

His colleague straightened his shoulders. Like many other officers in Starfleet, being told, “It's okay,” translated to a slap in the face and a direct challenge to continue.

M'Benga took in a deep, slow breath, his eyes closing for a moment.

“No, no I'm fine. If I can handle ten Vulcans with the Rigilian flu on a weekend trip in a shuttlecraft, I can handle this.”

McCoy nodded. If their patient showed continued signs of stress around the doctor, McCoy would send him off regardless. Their chance for success sat in the below thirty percent as it was; anything added to the pile wouldn't be appreciated.

“Sorry I've been gone so long, but we've been trying to decide what to do about your ship. Can't believe how hot it got in there.”

“Any luck on communication?” M'Benga asked.

“No, but Uhura-”

McCoy stopped himself, at the tentative touch of the two digits on the hand closer to the incubator, followed by a familiar gesture towards the case.

“It's not quite time to rotate them,” he said quietly. “But perhaps you'd like to take a peak in, hm? How'd it get this far away anyway?”

“Had to get to the scanners,” M'Benga grumbled while McCoy wheeled it back.

“Of course. Just remember to bring it back around, okay? This poor creature doesn't have much reason to trust us as it is.”

After a moment's consideration, McCoy decided to crack it open a moment and retrieve one of the precious, still-living ova.

The desecrated two fingers trembled as they reached to touch the perfect curved surface. McCoy flinched, but allowed the gentle caress. Everyone was sterile, at least. The painful gap between the two remaining digits, making the missing finger in the middle more obvious, cast a pathetic pall on the moment.

“We're doing the best we can for them. It's no comfort at all right now, when you can't understand me, but we are doing the best we can.”

“What happens if... our patient dies, and we're left with the eggs?”

McCoy blinked over at M'Benga.

“How about we keep the negative talk outside the sickbay, huh?” M'Benga didn't look chastised in the least. The CMO drew himself up to his full height. “Go take some readings and write up the hourly report.”

“Of course, Doctor McCoy.”

Both doctor and patient looked calmer for his exit from the tent.

McCoy sighed and turned his attention back to where it ought to be. “My apologies for him, we're all a bit strained and-”

A familiar chime interrupted him.

“Time to rotate everyone.”

The hand reached for him, grasping his wrist in a strong, lopsided grasp.

“We'll be right here.”

With both his hands cupping the egg he had to wait until he was released. Luckily, Uhura pushed into the tent with her bright smile and coated PADD to rescue the day.

“Our Lieutenant Uhura has something to show you while I check the eggs.”

The fingers retreated, the lidless eyes turning back and forth between them.

McCoy took a place on the far side of the incubator so that he could rotate in the full view of his patient. And so he could watch Uhura work her magic.

“This is called a PADD,” she informed with fierce cheerfulness. She rotated between a couple languages, after declaring each sentence in Standard. “I've got it programmed to help us communicate, hopefully, but we're going to need your help. Here, see? You can tap it, like this, and it'll tell you words to the pictures.” Her fingers selected one thing, than another, showing first a boy child, then a girl, offering words for both.

“You should make sure to have species other than human in there,” McCoy recommended.

“Every species I could find pictures of,” Uhura replied with a grin. “I figured, if we saw some recognition somewhere, then the species she know's might be one that knows her in turn.”

Her fingers continued to demonstrate, showing young male and female Vulcans, Klingons, Ferengi, some adults added in here and there.

“Anything but people?”

“Oh, yes. Here, I have different headings.” She poked an icon off to the side, and the viewer went from humanoids to larger concepts: ocean, water, river, beach, sand, swamp, island. “Spock thought that we might get a better idea of the native environment if-”

“Of course, of course.”

After a few more flicks back and forth, a gauze-wrapped digit reached up and tentatively poked at a great expanse of water.

“ _Lake._ ” The feminine computer spoke. “ _Lake. Lake. Lake._ ”

“I think she's got the idea.”

“You do realize everyone is going to assume female now, with that voice.”

“Oh deal, Doc.”

“ _Ocean. River. Stream. Water. Glass. Cup. Drink._ ”

Doctor and Lieutenant glanced between them, then down to their patient.

“ _Drink. Water._ ”

To make the point stronger, the two digits reached up and touched the exposed teeth, before once again touching the two pictures.

“Do you think....”

“All we can do is try,” McCoy said. He didn't rush finishing with the eggs, but the moment he had, he tucked the lid down and retrieved a cup of distilled water and a small sponge.

Without the proper plumbing to bring the liquid down, straws were out of the question, but a few drops moistening the little yellow cube and then touched to the indicated flesh brought a long stretch of the ribcage.

“ _Water. Drink._ ” The fingers tapped again.

McCoy continued to dab little bits of moisture at a time, until the pair of digits touched his wrists to stop him.

“Do you think she understands Standard?”

McCoy looked down. “Well, do you?”

Unblinking eyes stared up without change in expression.

“I’ll take that as a no. You'll have to compliment Spock and his associative algorithm.”

McCoy reached over, tapping the PADD a couple times himself, to see the images supplied for _Water_ and _Drink_ , which the computer narrated. A short, looped video of water flowing from a spigot, and another of a human woman drinking from a water fountain.

“Let's see if we can work out a stand or something for that.”

_Modern pictographs. Who would have guessed it?_

With a bit of work, they set up a spot for the PADD to sit on one of the movable medical tables. Not the most stable location, but their patient seemed capable of picking it up and setting it down well enough. Without a thumb the movement took longer, with the fingers gripping it down onto the remaining flesh of the palm.

“I put a couple games on it, as well,” Uhura said after a moment, showing with gesticulation how to minimize the language section and pull up some large, colored icons. “It's kinda boring in here. No offense, Leonard.”

“None taken, Nyota,” he replied. “I'm glad you thought of it. It will be a good way to watch reaction times and-”

He felt his eyebrows head for his hairline again at her selection. Kids games. Color matching, minesweeper, solitaire, target practice-

“Umm....”

But she was already pulling up one game, showing how to make colorful spinning atoms explode by matching up volatile compounds.

“If you end up showing our friend how to make TNT, I'm reporting you to Jim.”

She chuckled. “I only had a little while to work on this. I'll find some more suitable ones. Just be glad I didn't put the Enterprise's targeting demo on it. These are all of Chekov's games.”

“That makes more sense... and makes me want to avoid the transporter pad all the more.”

A shaky finger swiped one way, then another before tapping several times in rough succession, each time away from the gyrating hydrogen atoms.

McCoy reached over again and quit the game. He pointed towards the language center, but let his patient make the selection.

They sat back while word after word passed with ever increasing speed. Plants, minerals, animals, different foods, plates, styles of cooking, history of Italian dishes, the molecular compounds of salsa.

“...Perhaps I was too optimistic with my earlier assessment of Spock's algorithms.”

The two fingers made a loose fist, then poked McCoy hard in the hand, before pointing towards the incubator.

He smiled and nodded, understanding immediately.

“What's going on?”

“Our friend is looking for the picture of an egg.”

“How did you...?”

McCoy shook his head. He picked up the PADD, taking a quick snapshot of first the incubator, changing the computer's assumption of, “ _Display case,_ ” to something more medically appropriate, then another couple of the eggs, getting one for singular, and a last one with the whole group.

Just to make sure his staff didn't go slack, he made sure to designate in the computer that they were “ _Child_ ” and “ _Children_ ,” rather than “ _egg_ ” and “ _eggs._ ” It'd be difficult enough as it was to keep people from dehumanizing the lump of flesh that remained.

“Good idea, Leonard,” Uhura commented, as the doctor handed the PADD back to his patient.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, as the computer declared “ _Child. Child. Child._ ” Over and over in the clear, feminine, chipper voice. “Can't help but think that might bite me in the ass.”

He grinned as he pulled out a different egg this time for his patient to check on.

“ _Incubator._ ”

He put the egg away.

“ _Child._ ”

Another pulled, so that one desperate hand could smooth the surface.

“ _Incubator. Child._ ”

The fingers flicked faster now between the two. McCoy kept his pace slow and measured.

After the fifth egg was checked, he touched his patient's fingertips carefully.

“If we keep opening the incubator, the kids will get cold.”

Pleading eyes flicked over to Uhura. She hmmed and hawed, before selecting the photo of the incubator, juxtaposed with an iceberg. Perhaps extreme, but the patient settled down.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. We're all going to have to figure this system out, but it's better than nothing.”

“ _Water. Drink._ ”

McCoy wet the sterile sponge again and moistened the exposed flesh.

“Would you like me to leave you to it then? The Captain wanted me to assist with... well.”

“Of course, thank you.”

“ _Water. Drink. Child. Incubator. Doctor Leonard McCoy._ ”

A gauze-wrapped finger pointed to Uhura.

She smiled. “You're welcome.”

McCoy huffed in frustration, lifting the machine and taking Uhura's picture.

“Lieutenant Nyota Uhura,” he told the computer.

“ _Lieutenant Nyota Uhura,_ ” it repeated, once prompted.

“There. Now go on with ya, before Jim finds you've been showing a new species Solitaire.”


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next few hours, McCoy's quiet sickbay was filled with the computer's jarring, cheerful voice as their patient scrolled through seemingly every image in their database. Uhura, or Spock more like, had figured up a queueing system, as familiar phrases started cropping up repeatedly.

“ Still too early,” became his mantra to the requests to see the children. He finally took a picture of the blasted timer, resetting it long enough to show the full four hours on the dial, and recorded his voice saying just that, rather than the more sensible, “ _ Clock. _ ”

He regretted that action less than an hour after he did it. The computer's chipper interpretation of his words mixed into the conglomeration.

When the timer went off again, the PADD rang with “ _ Still too early! Incubator. Children. Still too early! _ ”

“Ug. That'll tell me about putting in a false entry in that. Alright, alright, just a moment.”

He had to put down the fresh roll of gauze he'd been applying over a weeping thigh wound, changed gloves, and went to the incubator.

“ _ Child. Child. Child. _ ”

“Yes, yes. Time to rotate. Let me do that first.”

Once again, he methodically turned each. About half way in, he realized that his work was accompanied by the near-silence of oxygen, scanners, and life support systems. The talkative PADD down on the side table.

“We're going to have to see if Uhura can help figure out a system about asking if I'm doing this right for your species....” He frowned. “No, I can do it. Hand that to me, will you?”

He reached towards the PADD, fingers opening and closing dramatically. Eyes flicked back and forth, in a moment realizing he needed the little computer.

With utmost care, he set the PADD against the edge and recorded video of different types of rotations he could do, using a roll of gauze as the dummy to demonstrate what he needed: quarter-, half-, full-rotations, rotating along the long side, across the wide side. Lifting an “egg” up, putting it down again. Covered, uncovered. Pushed to the edge of the container, pulled in to the middle.

When he finished recording everything he could think of, he handed the PADD back.

“This is what I have been doing,” he said, before selecting videos of exactly how he'd been doing it.

The hand hovered a moment, before selecting the same.

McCoy selected the same set of three videos, then reached into the incubator and preformed just that act, nothing more.

A tap to the glass of the incubator, then four other videos selected.

Another nod from McCoy, repeating the selection, then preforming the same on the next egg.

The same four videos queued up again and McCoy repeated the action again.

“ _ Doctor Leonard McCoy _ ,” the computer stated with its usual precision. “ _ Child. Half-rotation along the X-axis. Pointed end tilted down. Push it to the center. Next child a thumb's width away. Incubator. Doctor Leonard McCoy. _ ”

He couldn't help but grin. Uhura had guessed earlier that day that a quick repeat of the items, but with their face, meant a thank-you. At least it wasn't a correction.

He finished the rest of the eggs, following the same procedure with an unblinking stare and a quiet room to accompany his actions.

When he finished, the familiar chant of “ _ Child. Child. Child. _ ”  Started again. Assuming it meant that he needed to show that they were safe again, he plucked up another grower.

A soft caress greeted it, then another quick succession of taps, getting the same chant, then a tap the the glass on what he'd been thinking of as the “dead end.”

McCoy frowned. He ached to play dumb, keep pulling up the good ones, but he had a feeling that would last only so long.

With his mouth set in a thin line, he put back the good, and reached for one of the ones with obvious cracks.

A few short spasms of the ribcage shook the whole frame. The fingers fluttered over the breaks. McCoy flinched as a fleck of shell broke away, revealing the hard boiled meat within. If one of his human patients had seen the same in their own children....

Unblinking eyes went back to the PADD. A long list of words and images passed through, before settling on “ _ Stone. _ ”

“I suppose 'dead' would be a hard picture for Uhura to find on such short notice,” McCoy spoke beyond the lump in his throat.

“ _ Doctor Leonard McCoy. Child. Stone. _ ”

“Wish I knew what you wanted.”

“ _ Stone. Stone. Stone. Mountain. Island. Soil. Forest. Cliffs. Bluffs. Cave. Cave. Cave. Cave. Child. Stone. Cave.” _

McCoy peered over at the picture. A dark hole in a mountainside.

“ _ Child. Incubator. Rotate. Still too early!”  _ A finger tapped the dead one hard enough to add another crack. More rough ribcage spasms. Hiccups. “ _ Child. Stone. Cave. _ ”

With an eye on his patient, McCoy moved off to the side, egg still in his hands, pushing through the tent.

“ _ Child. Stone. Cave. _ ”

He moved to a cabinet, the closest thing to a dark space he could find.

“ _ Child. Stone. Cave. _ ”

He put the egg inside and closed the door.

“ _ Water. Drink. Child. Incubator. Doctor Leonard McCoy. _ ”

A long slow breath again.

“Ah. I need to remove the bad ones now, eh?” He moved back to the incubator, removing another bad one and displaying the breaks.

“ _ Child. Stone. _ ”

“Got it.”

With exaggerated movements, he put it alongside the other one.

“ _ Child. Stone. Incubator. _ ”

“Another couple that are bad, I'm sorry to say.”

McCoy weeded out the rest of the bad ones, showing that they were bad before putting them in the “cave.”

With the dead ones separated, he covered the rest, hitting the icon for the clock, then the iceberg.

The long stare turned up to the ceiling, then back to the PADD. The long stream of consciousness flooded from the PADD, settling on, “ _ Sky. Sun. Moon. Dark. Night. Night. Night. _ ”

McCoy dimmed the lights a bit, applied eyedrops, then settled a bit of gauze over the face, careful that it didn't touch the exposed organs.

Another long lift and settle of the ribs, and McCoy hoped that his patient slept again. For once, the readings that the biobed's scanners gave him showed enough distress he couldn't tell.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“How's your patient doing?” Jim asked the next night. He'd invited the beleaguered doctor for a drink and a sodium-laden meal in his private quarters.

“A confounded, frustrating mystery, wrapped in a boat load of parental concern. Thanks for asking. Is that a bacon cheese burger?”

“You don't doubt it.”

“...And fried eggplant?”

“With mac and cheese.”

“You're going to kill me, ya know that?”

“Oh a little cholesterol won't kill you, every now and then. The trick is moderation.”

“This is a four course meal for six people!”

“With whiskey on top. Here, grab a glass.”

“Jim, I can't let myself-”

“ You will. And you're going to get some sleep. Uhura is staying up with Robinson for his shift.  _ You _ are officially off-duty until tomorrow morning. Take a seat and grab a burger. Captain's orders.”

McCoy groaned at the first touch of grilled, ground beef on his tongue.

“Did Chef do something with the patties?”

“Mixed provolone right in with the meat while he ground it. Goat cheese and some more provolone, then comes the ketchup, mustard, mayo, onions, mushrooms on top. Can't argue with this little bit of heaven, hm?”

They ate in companionable silence for a while.

“So, any leads on a home planet?” McCoy asked, when he came up for air and a handful of mixed fried veggie slices.

“ Scotty's been searching for any warp trails that might give us a lead. Apparently the only ones coming up are old and dissipated. Spock's got several possible systems that show signs of habitable planets, but insists on a methodical search. It'll take a bit more time. Can't argue with the man. I can't help but wonder if he's giving you a little time to get your friend back in better health. That first image was... rather shocking. Last thing we need for first contact is a whole planet to think  _ we _ were the ones that did that.”

“To be accurate, I did. I see your point, though. I'm itching to get some facial reconstruction done. Some more protection to the cranium, eyelids, vocal cords...” McCoy plucked up more of the fried zucchini, dipped the slices in the accompanying sauce and popping one after another in his mouth while he talked. “It'd be nice to have some qualifiable, quantifiable recovery. Why, today we had to amputate what I'd been hoping would be the healthier hand. Clean off, right at the wrist.” He drew a line across his own to demonstrate. “Doe hadn't been using that hand at all. We were hoping it was because it was hurting too much, that maybe some nerve clusters were intact, but no. Gangrene. Completely lost. Are you going to eat that?”

“I... erm... no. Please.”

McCoy reached over and snatched up Jim's pickle, ignoring the Captain's abandoned burger.

“Wait... did you call it? Doe?”

“As in John Doe. Or Jane Doe, as Uhura keeps suggesting.”

“ That point sticks in your craw, doesn't it,” Jim said.  _ No doubt, wants to avoid the medical talk. _

“ Of course it does, Jim. It's like everyone keeps assuming that just because what's keeping Doe alive is the need to keep those eggs safe, that makes Doe the mother. How many species in the Federation have more than binary genders? No, don't give me that look. Seven with more than two genders  _ required _ for reproduction, another thirty, to different degrees, depending on how a doctor defines it. Hell even humans-”

“You're thinking about Joanna, aren't you?”

“Damnit, Jim. Am I that obvious?”

A warm smile answered enough, before he poured them each a couple fingers of good whiskey.

“ That damn divorce. The moment I think I've gotten over it, it rears its ugly head right back up again. Do you know  _ she _ is screening my messages to Jo now? My own daughter! I didn't have this problem when the subspace messages were a couple hours there and back, but with it over a week to get home now, and growing, its not like our usual Thursday night 'chat' can be predicted anymore.

“She asked if I still loved her, in the last message that got to me. Can you imagine how that hurts? ....No, I guess you can't.”

Jim shrugged and shook his head. “No, I can't. But I know that, regardless of the bitch back home, you're an amazing doctor. You'll help Doe get back in good shape. I'm sure we'll all be bouncing little hatchlings on our knees and taking turns playing babysitter before we know it.”

“I've already lost five of the original twenty-one. Two more in critical condition, that I can see. I've lost a quarter of my patients, Jim. And no idea if I'm going to loose their parent too.”

“I'm not quite sure what advice I can offer you, Bones.”

“Well that makes two of us.” McCoy scooped another large helping of mac and cheese onto his plate. “But... this helps. Thanks, Captain.”

“Anytime, Bones, anytime.”

Talk switched to more amicable things, gossip from Starfleet, news from the border of the demilitarized zone, Ambassador Selek's monthly call.

“Can't believe I missed this one!” McCoy said with a laugh. “Now that's one Vulcan I can appreciate. You know, last time we passed by New Vulcan, he invited me to the clinic? I thought there was some medical emergency, suggested M'Benga, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And there he met me at the transporter pad with a bottle of brandy. Pretty as you please. Bow and all. Another couple fingers, by the way, if you don't mind.”

Jim supplied each glass with another generous shot.

“Of course I visited the clinic and did the rounds. It does a soul good to see the recovery efforts, of course. Never saw such a scientifically minded diplomat before. And so... warm too. Quite strange. We ended up taking up a table at a tea shop, putting in a good dollup with each cup mind you, and spent several hours discussing some of the most outlandish medical theories I've ever heard. Well, perhaps not too outlandish. Just odd for a Vulcan to think of.

“You know, I know you won't believe this, but the man was smiling. Whole time. And drinking. Couldn't believe it. Well, a hot toddy isn't much of a drink, but for a Vulcan! Now if we could get someone like that to tutor our good science officer. Loosen up some of those stiff buttons. Hey there, easy on that whiskey! No use wastin' it in your lungs!”

McCoy got up to smack his friend smartly in the back to help expel the drink.

“Geeze man. It's like you've never touched the stuff before.”

“Sorry Bones,” Jim gasped, still coughing and laughing at the same time. “Just the... ah... thought of one of those stuffy Vulcan Ambassadors smiling. Quite the shock.”

“ You're telling me. You know, when I decided to send out an all-points info request, I even sent one to that Ambassador too. Even though I  _ know _ he's never seen anything like it. I just get this feeling like... damn, this is going to sound a bit weird. But conversations with that Vulcan are familiar, comfortable. Like I've bounced ideas between those pointy ears for years. Decades.”

“So!” Jim emptied the last of the bottle between them. “Have you got any responses back yet?”

“We're out in the middle of nowhere. A couple have had time to get to their respective folks, Jim, but I'm not going to see any messages back for days yet.”

“What's the next step?”

“Given another day or two, the last of the radiation will've come ta the surface. I'll know if I have to cut off any more. Once the burns are stable, I can start surgeries to replace tissue, do deep regeneration. Muscle, skin, nerves, that will be easy, really. Organs... a little more difficult. At least not much internal was effected. As long as the brain and the spine are intact, we've got a chance. Perhaps not full recovery, but I'm hopeful.

“The hands...” He sighed. “Well. It will take longer to vat-grow something that complex. A prosthetic might be more practical, for now. I'm hoping we'll be in contact with Doe's people at that point. Hell, without a visual record of what Doe's supposed to look like, everything's guess work. I could use an artist's hands. A sculptor's. Like those old twenty-first century forensic artists. Someone to trace where the muscles attached and show... Damn! Jim! That's exactly what we need!”

McCoy downed the last drop of whiskey.

“I'm going to find Uhura. Gotta get a subspace out. Maybe if I can find-”

“Bones.”

McCoy turned back from the open doorway.

“Another thought.”

“Hmm?”

“There's a couple artists on board too, hobby artists, but you never know. And I had another thought. Have you tried candling?”

“...Candling, sir?”

“Yes, Doc. Not sure how much of a farm boy you were, but I found it was a great way to get a gander in. Maybe your patient would appreciate a little look, considering?”

McCoy grinned. He could kiss the man – well, not really.

“You've got a good brain sometimes, kid.”

“...Thanks?”

McCoy laughed and headed out for the bridge, remembering once he got there that Uhura had said she'd help Robinson with communication in sickbay.

“Uhura! I need to do a subspace-”

Rough grunts and frustrated chitters got him wobbling towards the sterile tent. He pulled back the sheeting, before cursing for letting himself get drunk enough to violate his own Laws of Cleanliness.

The wrestling match on the other side, however, kept him there. Uhura and Robinson struggling with the leftover pieces of a determined Doe.

“Uhura! Robinson!”

“Leonard! Uh, let me...”

“Damn, just hold still.”

He turned around in a huff, the pleasant buzz turning quite sour in his mouth as he scrubbed raw flesh and donned all of his usual garb. In the background, he could now hear the tinny voice of the computer spouting words at random: somehow the PADD got caught in the fray.

The automated clock went off with its regular precision in his office, giving him an idea of what the struggle might be about.

“ Alright, coming in,” McCoy grumbled as he shoved his way back in. “Now then, let's all just  _ settle down _ , will you?”

He grabbed each garbed shoulder, separating them from his patient, before pressing Doe down as well. He watched the sharp repetitions of the ribcage. Silence surrounded him.

“Damn, I know it hurts, and I'm sorry. Uhura, the PADD please.”

“ _ Child! Child! Child! _ ”

“I know, I know. 'Still too early.' The alarm went off. Robinson, please, give us a little space.”

“ _ Child! Child! Child! _ ”

“Yes. Here.” He brought the incubator around; thankful it'd gotten shoved away in the struggle. “Oh damn. Robinson! Back in here. The patch job. Bring the chemical sutures. The plaster isn't holding. And a detox hypo, please. I'm too drunk for this.”

Doe shivered in place, but didn't distract them while they worked over the two cracked eggs. The heat had damaged the plaster; Robinson'd searched for a plaster to patch up calcium, specifically bone. Since it'd looked like it'd stuck and sealed well, McCoy hadn't wanted to mess with it. But plaster meant to harden, then remain inside where it'd stay moist, had very different properties than the dry heat of the incubator. Chips must have begun falling off just as McCoy finished up his burger with Jim.

Now they'd have to chance surgical sutures. Very small ones. Small enough to make his eyes burn and his head ache. Small enough to function as spot welds to hold in a water balloon with a membrane one cell thick.

The first one... damn. He couldn't quite tell if it worked. His brain still fuzzy from detox. He did the best “weld” he could, before tucking it back in with its siblings and grabbing the second one. The cracking here less extensive, at least. Once he had the entire surface reclaimed, he chanced a quick pass with the dermal regenerator at the very ends of the crack lines, giving the seals there some artificial time to the heal to keep the cracks from creeping any further along.

“Quick, give us a scan, would you? I want to make sure the membrane is intact.”

Robinson snagged the tricorder while McCoy held out the egg.

“Just a moment... yes. Yes, it looks good. A little thickened where you hit it with the regenerator, but otherwise fine.”

“Good. Open the lid for me, I want to do the same to the other one.”

Where the second had minor fracturing, maybe fifteen percent of the surface, the first had more along the lines of forty-five percent fractured and resealed.

McCoy didn't like the frown that he could see in Robinson's eyes as the ran the scanner over and over.

“Readings, Doctor.”

“I'm... I'm sorry, sir. I think we got to it too late.”

He tilted the viewer to McCoy could read. Damn. Fluids too low, membrane punctured, albumen leaked out. What Doe had seen that started the panic.

“You know what? No, damn it. Pass the regenerator over all the cracks. Nice and smooth even cover. And get that major tear.”

“Doctor, there's no chance-”

“ I don't care! We've lost enough as it is.  _ Chapel! Get your pert ass in here! _ ”

“Sir?”

McCoy saw a wavering shadow on the tent to his right.

“The... the bad eggs are in the cabinet still, right?”

“Yes, sir. We didn't want to move them without your permission.”

“Good. Break open one of the ones that's not cooked through. Extract the albumen, the clear fluid. Put it in a hypospray injector for me. Robinson... I want you to preform surgery for me. My hands are shaking too much. Uhura, go in that drawer over there, see if you can find a heat pad. Yes, that one is fine. Set it to level five, tuck it in a set of scrubs, and set it down on this instrument tray for me.”

That done, he put his cupped hands down. The pad would keep his hands warm enough, and hopefully he'd be able to offer enough cushioning for-

“Surgery?” Robinson asked, his hands hovering with the dermal regenerator.

“Keep working. We're going to have to strengthen this whole side if its going to work. See that one triangle in the middle? Work around that. As close at you can get, but keep those seams open.”

McCoy rotated the egg until that little triangle crack pointed straight up. The major tear in the thin inner membrane sat off to the side, so Robinson concentrated his efforts there.

“I have the... fluid, Doctor. I extracted all I could from two of them.”

“ Good girl. Now Uhura, if you would tap the  _ child _ icon for me. Any chance you think you can whistle our to Doe that we're going to preform surgery on the little one?”

“I can say we're trying to help?”

“Close enough.”

“ _ Child. Stone. _ ”

McCoy flinched.

“No, not stone yet, Doe. I'm not giving up hope. Ms Chapel?”

“Coming. I just wanted to preform a quick contaminant scan.”

“Guess it's lucky we tested the radiation wash on the bad ones, huh?” Robinson asked. McCoy nodded.

“Here.”

Nurse Chapel sidled up next to him, obstructing Doe's view of the process. McCoy didn't correct her.

“Alright, Robinson, you're going to have to use the laser and cut through those seals I just made. Carefully! Good, yes... alright, don't remove it yet. Go back through, and cut along two of the edges again, get in the membrane this time. If we keep the last side intact, the flap should keep everything lined up to reattach.”

With a careful tweak of the tweezers, Robinson lifted the shard up and away.

“Easy, easy. Just like opening a little door. If we shatter it now, it's going straight in.”

They all sighed as the curved shard rested to the side.

“Now, Ms Chapel....”

McCoy found his voice trailing off. That little piece, that little door... Inside he could see a wealth of blood vessels flowing back and forth, from fluid, to body, to airsack, nourishing the little life with precious oxygen. And... McCoy bent over the little life suspended in his hands. A bright, familiar eye peered up at him through the crack in the shell.

“Hello there.”

“Doctor?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Chapel, please, the spray. Careful now, fill'er up.”

The doctors both held their breath as she infused the protein-laden fluid from its siblings. McCoy leaned away, tucking his head to the side so he could view the curvature of the fluid as it clung to the edges to tell when it was full enough. No way he wanted to waste one drop of that precious liquid.

“There, that's enough.”

He leaned over the egg again, hoping to catch another glimpse of eyeball, but...  _ ah well, rotated away with the current _ .

“Batten down the hatches, Mr. Robinson.”

“...You really are drunk, huh?”

“Oh just do it, will you? The backs of my hands are getting warm.”

Chapel assisted, holding the shell shard with a careful touch of the tweezers while Robinson leaned around the edge, first sealing the membrane, then the shell itself, before sweeping the whole area again with the dermal regenerator.

“The shell is going to be too tough to break through on this side,” McCoy said conversationally. “We'll have to preform a C-Section.”

“...Or we rotate the egg onto the other side.”

“Right. Right.”

“ _ Child. Stone. _ ”  The computer suggested, after the doctors stood still for a few moments, staring at the mosaic of pale shell.

“Doctor?” McCoy asked. “Would you be so kind as to scan our little patient for me? I find my hands are a bit occupied.”

“Oh... yes, of course.” For once, the OB/GYN's hands shook a little as he preformed his final scan. “The seal is good. You're right, everything is thick on this side. The scar tissue of the membrane is four millimeters thick in spots. The shell-”

“The child, Robinson! Respiration? Heartbeat? Stress hormones?”

“All... normal. No rejection, that I can see. No ruptured blood vessels. Levels seem to be within the norms I've seen in the others. I think... I think she's going to make it.”

“She, huh?”

“Well... it... he....”

“No, it's fine. You've got a fifty-fifty chance anyway. Uhura, can you tell Doe that I'm bringing the egg over for a touch, but don't touch the scar areas? And be gentle? We're not going to be able to do full rotations until the blood vessels settle back into place.”

She nodded, and started twittering excitedly, but McCoy had a feeling it was all extraneous anyway. The reverent way those two last fingers hovered this way, then that, caressing the air over each little scar, reassured him that it was unlikely Doe would be too impulsive.

McCoy smiled as Uhura struggled, trying to find the right words in the strange language; the fact that they knew it wasn't Doe's native language meant... hell.

The gauze-wrapped bones did touch his gloved skin, before tapping the glass of the incubator with a solid  _ thock-thock _ . A quick flick of the wrist demonstrated what needed doing faster than searching through that whole damn database for the words.

“Of course. Back in with brothers and sisters, who all need rotating. Robinson, if you please.”

He lifted the lid, letting McCoy reach in, set the scarred little one back down in a new corner, since he had to remove the wet fabric where the shell had leaked. He checked for any other cool spots, where the fluid might have escaped to, before changing gloves –  _ Cleanliness First! _ –  and systematically rotated the rest of the eggs.

“ _ Thank you. _ ”

McCoy looked up at the unexpected sentiment.

“We've been working on the database,” Uhura replied shyly. “After Doe woke up from the latest surgery, and you weren't here....”

“Got it. You're welcome,” McCoy said. “And now, I bid you adieu. I'm tipsey, and need to work on that before I'll be able to get a solid eight hours tonight.”

“Eight hours?”

He grinned at the sound of panic in Robinson's voice.

“I'll be on the sofa in my office. The alarm will wake me, don't worry. I'll keep doing the rotations.”

He retreated to said sofa, taking enough time to pull off the respirator, mostly because trying to drink with it on was blasted difficult, before tipping the bottle up to his lips, taking a healthy swig, and allowing his body to fall into an exhausted heap.

 


	8. Chapter 8

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

McCoy grumbled.

“Whythehell?”

Oh yeah. Alarm.

Just one reason he had that alarm while this drunk. Time to feed the kid.

He rolled, feeling for the edge of the bed, and yelped in surprise as he fell to the floor.

“Shit!”

“Doctor?” One of the new male nurses popped his head in. “Are you okay?”

“Umm... you're not... shit. Right. Yes. Give me a moment to scrub up.”

Of course he wasn't in his wife's bed. No one to feed, burp, sing to to get them back to sleep.

He pealed off the stale fabric on the way to the sink, scrubbed mechanically, let someone dress him. His eyes didn't quite want to stay open.

“Doctor McCoy? Doe is getting-”

“Right. Right. Sorry.”

“ _Doctor Leonard McCoy._ ”

“Coming! Yes dear. Coming. Ugh.”

He needed toothpicks. Maybe with olives still attached, to prop his lids open.

McCoy trundled his way into the sterile tent. Opened the box, reached in. His fingers went through the motions with their usual precision until an odd bit of texture brought him out of habit.

“Shit. Right. Sorry little girl. I'm going to go back to quarter rotations for you for a little while. When I'm a little more sober in a few hours, we'll start you up on quarter turns every other hour. How does that sound, hm? You'll be able to keep up with your brothers and sisters and stay nice and strong.” He did the same truncated turn for the other one they'd just worked on. He itched to pull them out and do full scans, but they'd been out long enough earlier. He didn't want to chance them getting too cold for too long... and to be honest his eyelids were sinking back to their former locations.

“ _Doctor Leonard McCoy. Thank you._ ”

“Of course. Oh man. Night. Why are your eyes uncovered?”

He reached for the assortment of items on the bedside tray, moistening the exposed organs and offering a familiar gauze, before turning the lights back down to thirty percent or so.

“Sweet dreams.”

He hauled himself back to his office and collapsed back on the couch.


	9. Chapter 9

“Doctor?”

“Mmm?”

“Doctor, the alarm is about to go off.”

“Mmm.”

“I thought you'd like to wake up before it went off this time? So Doe stays calm?”

“Mmhmm. Right.” His mind drifted for a long moment. Trying to reclaim the figment of dream. Something about elephants and tricycles. “Good idea. Help me up.”

Cool hands gripped his own and tugged him upright. His lips smacked together reflexively.

Cold glass touched his palm. McCoy cracked one eye open and warily watched the water slosh back and forth.

“What'sish?”

“I'd think you'd recognize it. In Standard, it is called Water. A clear fluid, comprised of one part hydrogen to two parts oxygen. A necessary element for life for most humanoids in our databanks.”

_Of course it would be Spock._

McCoy sighed and drank down the water.

Nurse Chapel came back in with another glass.

“Oh! I didn't realize you came in Commander. I was just-”

“The Captain requested a personal report. I just arrived.”

“Please, for the love of all that's good in the universe, tell me you were the one who was whispering sweet nothing in my ear to wake me up, Nurse? Otherwise I'm going to have to gouge out my earballs.”

“'Earballs,' Doctor?”

“Eye balls. Ear drums. Whatever, Spock.”

“Yes, sir, I was the one who was trying to wake you up. I thought maybe a glass of water? With a couple sodium bicarb tabs?”

“Yes, please.”

He traded the empty glass for Chapel's fizzy one. He had to pinch his nose to get the whole thing down in one shot, but the knowledge that the acetylsalicylic acid would took take care of the headache helped immensely.

He glanced over at the clock. Five minutes.

“Join me in scrubs, Commander. You'll be of more help in that blasted tent than these... sorry Nurse.”

“Quite alright.”

Spock moved with the same mechanical precision he did, just enough effort and no more to complete the task. Too bad for McCoy it wasn't because the First Officer was also _this close_ to throwing up all over the floor.

“I assume you imbibed too much with the Captain last night?”

“Mmm. Why do you ask?”

“Captain Kirk was also late to duty, and appeared....”

“'Green about the gills,' Mr. Spock?”

“Not my preferred descriptor, Doctor, but an apt one, considering.”

They slipped on protective covers and went in to see Doe.

“Good morning,” McCoy said with more cheer than he felt. His patient twitched towards his voice, the single hand reaching for the gauze. “Here, let me get that for you. There now. A little saline and we'll be just about in time for-” The bell rang behind him. “Our morning rotation.”

Mr. Spock stood motionless beside him as he began his morning routine. It took him a good five minutes to realize that his patient and the Vulcan were in a deadlock staring contest.

“Doe's going to win, just to warn ya.”

“Win what, precisely, Doctor McCoy?”

“That staring contest. No eyelids you know. Nurse Chapel, how are those coming, by the way?”

He heard Chapel shuffling around behind him.

“They've just about finished growing, sir. Should be ready within another few hours.”

“Good, good. There hasn't been any continual radiation symptoms in that area. And the eyelids are as good a place as any to start with.”

“I agree. A small surface area, minimal contact would suggest minimal chance of infection.”

McCoy couldn't help but smile. Just a little.

“Thank you for your medical second opinion, Mr. Spock.”

He tucked the glass lid back in place and felt a familiar touch to his hand.

Doe tapped him, then the PADD, and pointed at Mr. Spock.

“Ah, yes, I am remiss. Let me.”

Spock gave him his usual lifted eyebrow, just as McCoy snagged a picture.

“Doctor?”

“Well you assisted rigging this PADD up, you might as well be added to the databank. Commander Spock, First Officer,” McCoy told the computer cheerfully.

“ _Commander Spock, First Officer_ ,” the PADD repeated.

“Uhura had set it up for Doe to take the pictures, but that last surgery....” He sighed, handing the PADD back.

“Of course, Doctor. It is difficult to lift a PADD, and make use of the in-frame camera, with one hand and no opposable thumbs.”

“ _Commander Spock, First Officer. Children. Fire. Thank you._ ”

Spock nodded a bit towards their patient.

“Not going to say 'You're welcome'?”

“I believe the words would be wasted, Doctor. I do not know what pictographs to select to transmit such a concept.”

_Don't let the eyes roll, McCoy. It'll just be a point on his scoreboard._

“Oh course, Mr. Spock, of course. Let me get on to the morning scans, so that you can give Jim your report.”

Spock stood by, his hands clasped behind him as usual while McCoy puttered about doing his work.

“You know,” McCoy grumbled, after dodging around the Vulcan for the third time. “You could wait outside. Or, hell, I could deliver the flipping PADD once I'm done!”

“The Captain assumed that you would be too engrossed in your work to accommodate. Considering the extensive injuries, I can understand his apprehension.”

“Gee, and here I was hoping Jim would invite me for another night drinking and partying.”

He _felt_ that pause.

“If you would prefer, I can inform-”

McCoy held up a hand. “Not on your life, you green blooded hobgoblin. That kid can outdrink even me, and that's saying something. Here, take the tricorder a moment, would ya? I want to check flexibility in these joints. Keep recording tensile strength while I apply force, would you?”

The strength in Doe's legs, and thus testing the remaining musculature, sat so far down the priority list that McCoy barely noted it in his logs.

Every day he catalogued every metric he could. A little stronger? A little weaker? How's blood-oxygen saturation? Fluid retention? Organ function, hormone levels....

“Doctor?”

“Hmm, sorry.”

“I said, I would like to offer my assistance, if I can.”

“With the translator on the PADD? That would be great. I'm sure Uhura would appreciate the help.”

“No, with the facial reconstruction.”

That stopped the doctor in his tracks. “You? You're the 'hobby artist' Jim mentioned?”

Spock nodded. “I am not one of the 'hobby artists' Jim intended. But I can take a hard-tissue scan and print out a mold of... Doe's skull. I spent a few hours last night researching the skill. It is as much research, measurement, and carefully applied technique as it is an art form. Finding an artist practiced in such an archaic skill will be chancy at best, and at worst it will take several weeks for someone to travel from Earth, or one of the colonies, to the ship to offer these services.

“I propose that we scan and print perhaps several duplicates of the skull itself, do several reconstructions with the best information that we can assemble, and have your patient indicate which is the most accurate.”

“I.... Hm. Spock, I believe your idea has merit.”

“There is no logical reason to cease searching for someone who has first hand experience, of course. There might be someone in a near-by Starbase who could offer more than textbook understanding of the science.”

“Have you talked with Jim about the idea?”

“The Captain was the one to suggest it, Doctor. Apparently from a suggestion from... Ambassador Selek.”

“Selek? Of course he'd be the first one to get back to me from all my subspace messages. Ah, now that's a good man. Tells a hellofa good joke too. I'll have to pick Jim's brain about what Selek said... once we're done here. He only mentioned that they'd done their usual monthly call. I didn't ask what it was about... or I don't remember asking. I'll bet ya a quarter he's come up with some good ideas. Why Spock, now you're the one who looks 'green around the gills.'”

“Shall I prepare the imaging scanner for Doe?”

“Yes yes. The more time you have with it and all. I'm sure you have plenty of other duties to preform as well.”

“Quite.”

McCoy stood on the opposite side of Doe while Spock did the scans. With a precise hand he charted each measurement as the Vulcan requested them, noting estimates of tissue depth where he couldn't take accurate ones.

“Estimates won't do, Doctor.”

“I'm doing my best, Spock. I'm a doctor, not a reverse engineering geneticist. The best I can do is mark areas I know are accurate and inaccurate, along with stating what I remember cutting off at the time.”

“What you cut off does not necessarily describe what was there previously. I distinctly remember the sight of burnt skin and fat as well. By the time you were removing muscle, your estimates would be drastically different than what had been there before Doe's tissue underwent such extreme alteration.”

“And any hair, or feathers, or scales, had been removed too,” McCoy added glumly. “You know, I'm almost happier that you're doing this. A human would be too effected by... by what's left to focus properly on the details.”

“It would be difficult to not be effected by the trauma that Doe has experienced.”

McCoy looked up at Spock. Still the same passive face, focused eyes, and confident hands as ever. But... hell, that almost sounded like emotion hinting through that veneer.

“I believe I have finished my scans, Doctor McCoy. I will go to engineering to begin synthesis.”

“Sounds good, Mr. Spock. Let me know if you need any further data.”

With a final nod to both doctor and patient, Spock left without further word.

“Well, now that stuffy, uptight, no good greenblooded-”

“I am still within earshot, Doctor.”

“Hobgoblin has left, let's take a look for any additional radiation burns.”

Nothing else'd cropped up while he was passed out drunk. _Thank goodness for small miracles._

“Hey Chapel? Did I hear your right, that the eyelids are almost ready?”

“Make that completely ready sir.”

“Go ahead and call the surgical team up. It's time to start fixing things.”


	10. Chapter 10

McCoy rotated the eggs twice more after surgery. First time they administered the freshly synthesized painkillers. The first few surgeries they hadn't had enough time in the labs to get anything more than a local anesthetic cooked up. _Now..._ He sighed. Next time he'd use a topical, or a partial dose. Doe should have woken up hours ago.

If McCoy'd known that he might have been able to snag another eight hours in an actual bed-

Ventilators kicked in as Doe sucked in a deep breath.

“Easy, easy friend.”

Arms flailed about, fingers clawing at the new flesh clinging to viability.

“Damnit Doe! Calm! Down!”

Two fingers snagged him on one side, the blunt end of the other arm on the other.

“See? Well, I guess not. It's just me. Your own person egg-rotation doctor. I need to look at your eyes, Doe. Give me a second here.”

Doe kept the touch connection while McCoy reached for the tricorder. Considering the switch from continuous sight to none-

“There. You've got some swelling, but the nerves are in place. The skin is very new, very tender. I'm going to have to use a laser scalpel to open them the first time. When you first grew them, your stem cells had to give out a little order to kill off a specific set of their own number in just the right order... hell, not like you can understand even the dumbed down version. Just... there.”

The moment he freed the first lid it began opening spasmodically. McCoy followed with the other before Doe could start clawing away at the ruined face again.

“It will take a moment for you to regain control. Just be patient.”

Asymmetrical flickering slowed, centered, and then settled with one, long blink.

“There we go. Now, another one.”

McCoy mimed a big one, and Doe followed.

“Excellent Doe! Now, open your eyes wide for me, and I'll snip your inner eyelid.”

Snipping the inner one proved a bit more difficult, but with a bit of patience, Doe blinked properly for the first time in days. Outer eyelids thick, the opening horizontal like pretty much everyone else on the Enterprise. The second, inner set, slitted vertically. Doe seemed to work harder to get this unruly pair working in concert. One moment there'd be one eye closed, the other open with a vertical line splitting the member, the next the inner eyelids would both be drawn, coating the iris in a translucent film.

“This might hurt a little bit, Doe, but I want to make sure your tear ducts are working.”

With a slow, steady hand, McCoy pressed into the large duct system with the pad of his thumb. Liquid welled up, bringing a smile to the doctor's own eyes.

“There we go. No more saline eyedrops, unless you want them of course. And you can control when you want to sleep, blink. Hell, you can even stop looking at my ugly mug while I work on you.”

Doe's eyes did close then. Water filled the corners, welled along the seam, and trailed down two perfectly ruined cheeks.

“I'll leave you to enjoy it, Doe.”

McCoy felt the familiar grip again. Doe released him a moment to flip through phrases Uhura had figured out and prerecorded.

“ _Please repeat that. Please show me a picture of what that word means._ ”

McCoy sighed. “Which word?” _Right, McCoy. That's going to work._ “I'll... leave... you... to... enjoy... it... Doe-”

“ _Please repeat that_ ,” Doe tapped quickly.

“Doe?”

Again, his patient tapped that icon. McCoy shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, you can't tell us your name... Damn, here.” He picked up the PADD, took a picture of his patient, and told the computer his nickname.

“ _Doe._ ” The computer repeated, showing the picture.

McCoy turned it to his patient, regretting the moment those clear eyes widened until he could barely see the new lids, the fingers gripping the smooth plastic of the PADD, the fresh tears, the clack and clench of the bare teeth and jaw.

“Damnit Doe... I'm sorry. I should have thought.... I've seen so much that you without skin that it doesn't phase me, but...”

With impeccable timing, the clock in his office went off.

“I've got to rotate the kids now, Doe. Damnit. Next thing I'm working on is your vocal cords. I can't stand this.”

Doe glanced up at him, tapping the glass, before looking away and closing those new lids again.

McCoy took his time to do the rotations, beating himself up internally. He should have thought, should have realized. How many times had he ordered therapy along with grafting for even minor burns? Massage therapy, talk therapy, drug therapy... different ways for the patient to become used to their new skin, their new appearance.

There was no way McCoy could return Doe to the exact state as before, even if they had the databanks.

After doing one last check of his patient, he decided to give them both some peace and quiet.


	11. Chapter 11

Uhura waited with him, after the next set of surgeries. Because he'd had to remove so much of the throat area, and the damage to the lungs had been worrying, he'd kept Doe in a coma between each minor surgery here and there.

“How long has she been asleep?”

“Doe's had three days out. No additional surgeries yesterday, I just wanted a good bit of time for the body to heal, make sure air was getting in and out through that new throat okay.”

“You made the right choice,” Nurse Chapel said from her side of the sickbay. “Doe was having some trouble adjusting after the last time.”

“Oh?” Uhura looked up from the PADD she was currently updating with new games.

“Yes. Didn't talk to any of us for a whole day. Just the occasional tap on the glass for the eggs. Felt like we were going back in time with the poor thing.”

“My fault too,” McCoy grumbled. “Should have thought before showing Doe the photo. Damn you and your blasted Vulcan inspired ideas anyway.”

“Leonard?”

He wiped his eyes. “Sorry, Nyota. Just... frustrated. I didn't think. I let myself get comfortable. I didn't think, and I let myself do something truly stupid.”

“Well, now we'll just have to keep you from doing anything stupid again this time.”

He smiled a little at her optimism.

“Well, at least now Doe has all the mechanics of speech, save lips. Spock is still working on those cosmetic details. I've talked with the Captain, and he's given permission for me to have a communications officer in here twenty-four-seven. I want you to organize it, Uhura. You know your people better than I do. I want someone in here working on that language every moment of the day. If Doe's asleep, they can just sit there and twiddle their thumbs. I don't care. Just... make sure you pick...”

“Sensitive people?”

“No, not that. Tactful? I don't want a pity party in here. Everyone just has to treat Doe like any of the other crew members. If they want to dote and coo and pull the sympathy face, have them do it for the eggs.”

“Understood, Doctor.”

“So, time to wake Doe up?”

McCoy sighed and nodded. “Yes.”

_ Aaand wait for the screaming match in five, four, three.... _

McCoy administered the drugs that would pull Doe from the medically induced coma with the slow push of a hypo. The eyelids flickered back and forth before settling down again. McCoy glanced up at the status panel above, watching as heart rate and respiration increased at a steady pace.

A familiar jerk of Doe's torso took over, before the lungs returned to their normal expansion. Eyes snapped open wide. Rasping air dragged through a new, still tender larynx.

“Easy, Doe, easy,” McCoy soothed. The status panel beeped and flared as Doe's body pushed itself into hyperventilation.

Uhura approached on the far side, taking Doe's two fingers between her gloved hands. The chittering language that they shared, at least in part, flowing from her lips. She even mimed breathing in slowly through the nose, and out through the mouth.

_ Shall I suggest a brown paper bag? _

“Now that your awake, I want to take some active readings. Uhura, keep up the calm breathing, would you?”

She nodded, chittered, and kept it going.

Thanks to the scanners, McCoy could watch the air traveling through the various air sacks, the main lungs taking in the most oxygenation, but circulation looked good throughout. While they'd connected the ventilator right to Doe's ribcage, the passive air circulation didn't get any movement in the lobes lower in the abdomen, but now, now the blood-oxygen ratio raised to nice healthy levels.

Well, what he assumed were healthy. Certainly better than before.

A croaking little ribbit brought his attention up.

“It's up to you if you feel like talking, Doe. I'd love to hear anything, but you're using nerve clusters that are only a couple days old.”

“I hope you know I have no idea how to translate that. This language we're using is centuries old. The only recordings Starfleet has of it are based off of song-snippets picked up from that planet's parrots. The native sentients killed themselves off before we were even in space.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Great. I'm glad you didn't tell me this until now.”

She grinned and turned back to their patient.

“ _ Doe. _ ”

McCoy blinked.

“What do you think she wants?”

“ _ Doe. Please repeat that. Please show me a picture of what that word means. Doe. _ ”

“I'm sad to say, I think you know what Doe means.”

Before he could let his mind get mired in the what-ifs McCoy picked up the PADD and took an image.

“Doe, post second surgery series.”

The computer repeated it as he turned the screen around.

The backlash wasn't as bad this time. Eyes widened, narrowed, fingers exploring the new contours. Unlike the eyelids, McCoy kept the whole section wrapped up tight in more gauze, obscuring the view, and offering a little protection, incase Doe decided to claw away at the fresh again.

But, miraculously, Doe seemed intent on exploring. Fingers curving up, then down, long swallows, deep and shallow breaths while testing the dips and way as naked trachea sank within the chest wall on it way to the lungs.

“Once we have some better communication, you can show us where to build up your tissue properly.”

“At least we're not looking at Doe's spine anymore,” Uhura said with a bit of a pleased smile.

“Yes. It's a start. Now, see if you can get Doe to vocalize a little, hm? The vibrations might hurt a bit, and I want to see if a topical painkiller is needed.”

Uhura let out another series of little twills; now that he knew what they came from, he could hear the sounds of parrots chattering back and forth in the vocalizations. Odd that he hadn't worked it out before. Doe eyed her a long moment, then McCoy.

The lipless mouth opened and closed a few times, regenerated tongue testing this and that. Doe's ribcage expanded and sagged several times, breaths coming in long and halting. McCoy kept his crossed fingers hidden behind a tricorder.

“Guh... oh.”

“That's it,” McCoy encouraged.

Doe's vocal cord visibly dropped, pulling out one rolling, vowel filled sound after another. Eyed closed at the occasional lift of octave.

“Ask if there's pain.”

A set of twills from Uhura. The eyes closed again, before the water gathered there had time to bead up enough to fall.

“Here, let me get a hypo-”

The strong, familiar grip caught him.

Doe's throat flexed several more times, before a deep, rough baritone, gasped and uttered, “Doe.”

Again, spasmodic undulations of the vocal cords took Doe's frame for a moment.

“Wu... wa... ter.”

Uhura and McCoy exchanged a glance.

“Guess your attempts at language lessons went better than planned. I'm sorry, Doe, not quite yet. You'll still be getting intravenous fluids for now. In another couple days we can try water, then broth.”

Doe'd head thunked hard against the biobed.

“Easy there, you're making excellent progress. I'm sure I'd be impatient too. Uhura....”

“I'll try, sir, but-”

“I know, I know, limited vocabulary.”

McCoy reached for his usual cup of water and sterilized sponge. A peace offering that Doe accepted after a moment.

“I'd like to start working on vocal range, Lieutenant.”

Under McCoy's anxious guidance, they urged Doe to explore the vocal limits. Trying notes higher in the range, longer in duration, getting to the point where enunciation was... not impossible anymore. Still difficult enough to cause pained clenches of the fist on the higher range, but possible.

“Do you think Doe's ready to start reverse engineering for the UT?”

“Let's take a break first, Lieutenant. We've taken some big steps today.”

Uhura took the hint and asked if she could get anything for the medical staff from the mess hall while she was there.

“And don't say 'nothing,' Doctor. You've got the look of a man who's lost ten pounds the past week.”

“Coffee will be enough. Thank you Uhura.”

“Anytime, Leonard.”

“Len... ard.”

McCoy smiled down at his patient.

“That's right.” He tapped himself in the chest. “I'm Leonard, your doctor.”

In the simple gestural introductions as old as time, Doe tapped McCoy's chest, repeating the guttural deep interpretation of his name. Then, that raw finger turned back to the dip between ribcage and throat.

“Doe.”

McCoy's smile tugged off to the side. “I'm sorry about that, my friend. I needed to call you-”

The eyes closed. His patient sighed. “And you still don't understand me, regardless. So, I'm Leonard,” McCoy repeated, with a firm tap to his chest. “You are?”

“Doe.”

“No, not Doe. You're real name.”

“Sss,” his patient groaned at the quiet hiss.

“That's going to be a bit hard to pronounce.”

“Cyg... nes.”

“Cygnus?” MyCoy replicated.

A long, slow blink.

“Close enough, eh? Well, it's about time to rotate again.”

The quiet in the sickbay sat loud and heavy on his shoulders as he went through his usual routine.

“You've got to be about ready to hatch, I'd think,” he murmured as he worked. “It'll be interesting to see if you start pipping like a chicken, or vibrating in place like those wailing bats I messed with when I was a kid. It'll be nice when your parent can tell me if I'm doing this right, at least. Especially if I need to let you all rest a couple days before hand.”

“Leonard.”

“Hmm?”

“Sil. Dren.”

“Yes, just about finished now. One more burped and fed and the whole nest'll be tucked in bed for their nap.”

A plethora of words flowed out of the PADD. McCoy looked up. Doe, erm, Cygnus hadn't done the broad word crawl like that for quite a long time. After a long search, picking up everything from  _ Crowd  _ to  _ Xindi star system _ , a huff of annoyance followed by the clatter of the plastic being dropped to the floor.

McCoy picked it up, mindful that he'd just contaminated his left glove, and held each away from any surface that he might need to come in contact with.

“Rest until Uhura comes back. She'll start working on this thing so that we can all talk.”

He didn't miss the glimmer of moisture on his patient's eyes before he turned to leave, intent on getting the PADD sanitized again before the communications officer returned.

 


	12. Chapter 12

“I think you're jealous, Doctor.”

McCoy looked up from the status report he'd been working on.

“Nurse Chapel?”

“You've had our patient to yourself all this time. Cygnus scared off everyone else, and you'd pretty much developed your own little language the past couple weeks.”

McCoy sighed and turned back to his paperwork.

“I have no idea what you're talking about Christine.”

She set a cup of coffee down in front of him.

“Two sugars. Hope you don't mind. I figured you could use some sweetness right about now.”

“Hmm.”

“Uhura is making headway with the UT. But I figured I'd tell you her biggest news.”

“Hm?”

“Cygnus is the father of the eggs, not the mother.”

McCoy felt his lips quirk.

“Thank you, Miss Chapel. That does make my day.”

She grinned. “I thought it might. Enjoy your coffee.”

McCoy took a moment to open up his patient file and perform a quick update.

** Patient: Cygnus **

** Planet: Unknown **

** Sex/Gender/Other: Male, with undeveloped secondary characteristics. Unknown if typical of the species or not. Reproductive systems more similar to Earth avians, than mammalians, so point of reference is.... **

“Good, now let's try for some... movement words, hmm?”

McCoy saved and closed the file. The coffee mug warmed his hands pleasantly. He stood, leaning in the doorframe and watched the tent in the surgery section of his sickbay.

“ _ Left _ ,” the tinny computer voice of the PADD suggested, showing Cygnus some icon to describe it.

A deep, musical tone flowed. The computer recorded this and gave its little affirmative chirp.

“ _ Right _ ,” Again.

Another tone, this one more upbeat. Or something.

“ _ Forward. _ ”

This note a flat collection.

“ _ Reverse. _ ”

Now, a sort of aerial loop.

“Very good Cygnus. Alright, how about... land formations.”

Uhura's bright tenacity shown through as she pushed Cygnus on, and on. She often asked a question, listened to what the computer would be able to translate for him, then continue on a different tact. Every sound, every word she could correlate from Cygnus' language to Standard meant the computer would be more capable at extrapolating the rest.

“Any idea why it's being so difficult?” McCoy asked, after they'd finished off different types of bodies of water.

“Tonal language, Doctor. With variances like... like music. The difference between a D, a D Flat, a D Sharp... but I think he's got some half notes in between as well. Each time I try to get the computer to translate something to him, he gets frustrated. We'll get there.”

“Blinking. Language. Soon we'll be in the lap of luxury, Lieutenant. Go on back to your lesson. Sorry I interrupted.”

McCoy kept his place in the doorframe, letting himself enjoy the sound of Cygnus' musical voice filling the sickbay.

“Doctor McCoy?”

McCoy blinked up at the first officer.

“I... wait. How long have you been there?”

“I have been standing here with sufficient time to state your name three times, Doctor. I had begun to wonder if you had placed under some sort of alien hypnosis. Considering that you have confined yourself to sickbay for the past twelve days, however, I found it unlikely. Perhaps some sort of innate failure within the human nerves centers?”

“ Just because I loose focus for a couple minutes, doesn't mean I'm got a cross circuit in the brainpan like you seem to sport around.” He sucked down the rest of his coffee, frowning at the empty cup.  _ I really had let myself get distracted. It's gone cold, the sugar settled to that gross sludge at the bottom. No wonder I don't like sugar. _

“So, what brings your blasted Vulcan hide into my sickbay anyway?”

“I presumed that Uhura would have the basics of communication at this point, and felt it would be a good time to bring my partial reconstructions for your patient to examine.”

“Heh, so you're excited to show off your little art project, huh? How very un-Vulcan-like, showing that much emotion. His name's Cygnus, by the way.”

That infuriating eyebrow went skyward. “You anticipate an emotional investment in my work, Doctor, which I do not have. I simply wished to provide the requested material in as expedient manner possible.”

McCoy waved off the argument. “Fine, Spock, fine. Where are these projections you've come up with? We'll see if Uhura has enough of a language to get your idea across.”

After Spock indicated the covered cart behind him, McCoy took them both to put on sterile garb again.

“ I can not  _ wait _ until Cygnus has skin again. Once we've got that vital organ regenerated-”

“Doctor McCoy, you don't need to explain the complexity of infection to me. I am quite aware of the risks inherent in exposure.”

McCoy rolled his eyes as he pulled his respirator mask on.

“Come on you green-blooded artisan. If I'm aching for skin, I can't imagine what Cygnus thinks about it right now.”

McCoy pulled back the flap to the tent, giving Spock a wide berth to wheel in his covered cart.

A long, low hiss brought all eyes to Cygnus.

“Egg stealer!”

“It seems,” Spock replied. “That your translator is working adequately, Lieutenant Uhura. I must offer my congratulations.”

“I thought I told you to get the computer to say 'child,' not 'egg,' Uhura.”

“I did,” she huffed. “He's using a different... conjugation, for lack of a better concept. Child-before-child, would be closer. Should I tell the computer to use the word fetus?”

McCoy shook his head. “No, I suppose egg would work for that. At least medically. I'll leave you to figure out the social connotations.

“Cygnus,” McCoy turned back to his patient. “This is Mr. Spock. He didn't steal your eggs, he saved them. Went right into the fire in your ship and brought them back. See? They're right next to you, just fine.”

Cygnus blinked up at him, long and hard.

“You […] make sense, Leonard.”

McCoy glared over at Spock, just waiting,  _ expecting _ the inevitable quip in return. Something along the lines of,  _ I have been waiting a long time to say the same, but that date will in all probability never occur. _

The tilted eyebrow seemed to say enough.

“It is nice to finally be able to talk with you, Cygnus.”

A long blink. “Yes. What magic allow […] song?”

Uhura waved the PADD about. “This.”

A slight nod. “I thought,” Cygnus continued with deep clicking, whirling, song, “teach me.”

“It's called a Universal Translator. Once the computer knows enough of your words, we will be able to speak as if you knew our language, and we yours.”

“It sounds like you speak my tongue. Some words […] broken.”

“That's normal, until the computer has learned enough.”

Another long blink.

“What egg stealer here for? This is place for Uhura. For Leonard. For horrors.”

McCoy blinked at Uhura. “Horrors?”

Her worried eyes said it all. “'Doe,' apparently, translated as....”

“ Ah.”  _ Horrors. Doe. The first sight of his own face. Of flesh pulled back. Unblinking eyes. Exposed bone. Tubes and switches and wires, all keeping him alive. _

“We are attempting to formulate a treatment plan for you. The primary focus at this juncture is reconstruction of tissue, muscle and bone, where needed. Once this reconstruction has been complete, Doctor McCoy will endeavor to replace the skin that had to be excised because of thermal damage.”

“[...] Broken words,” Cygnus declared.

“And that's why we use plain Standard around here, hm, Spock?”

“I am stating the facts in as straightforward manner as I am able.”

“Cygnus,” McCoy fought the urge to rub the back of his head. How to word it, simply? How to word it, when he had no idea what the computer had figured out, vocabulary-wise? “You remember the images we took, of you earlier.”

“Horrors.”

McCoy nodded. “Horrors. I want to fix everything.”

“Like you did for my children?”

“Yes. Like I did for them. I can mend what happened. But we will need your help. We've never met one of your people before. I can replace what was lost, but it will be difficult if I don't know what was lost.”

“This […] why for mending words first?”

“Yes. That's why exactly.”

Cygnus sighed and let his eyes fall closed.

“Ask questions. I am made of pain tomorrow.”

McCoy blinked up at Uhura. She shrugged as if to say,  _ Inaccurate translation, sorry. _

“Mr. Spock has some extrapolations he would like to show you. We took pictures of your skull, of you under all of your skin. I just want you to pick the closest thing to your face. The closer we can get to start with, the less reconstructive surgery we will have to perform later.”

“Face. Face. Face. All you mend is face. Eyes. Voice. Why not mend-” Cygnus lifted the stump of his right arm. “Voice is […] but need […]. Without […] I can not care for children. Without […] lost.”

“Easy, Cygnus, easy. We will get to your hands in time, won't we Leonard?”

“Yes. We will be your hands, for now.”

Another, long, contemplative blink.

“You are my hands.”

“Yes,” McCoy replied. “Just let us know what you need.”

“Show […] egg stealer work.”

“I think I like your new nickname, you pointy-eared hobgoblin.”

_ Ah, if only Vulcans showed emotion enough to roll their eyes _ .

“I have fabricated seven different anatomical models-” McCoy glared at him a moment. “Seven different... guesses. By the time we found you, there was extensive... a great deal of damage. There is a high probability that none will be appropriate. You will inform us of incorrect areas and I will correct them.”

“Did enough of that get through?” McCoy asked.

“Egg stealer shows [...] many faces. I pick my face.”

“Close enough. Alright, Spock. Show us your artistic skills.”

With a surprising flourish, the First Officer slipped back the cover.

Inside the glass case sat seven very realistic looking heads, taking even McCoy aback for a moment.  _ Not every day Spock brings the gift of heads in a box. At least they're not on pikes. _ _ Now that'd be an interesting sight. _

McCoy studied each of the recreations carefully.

Spock had printed the skulls in some engineering plastic at a 1:1 ratio, each just as big as the remnants of Cygnus' own face. Larger, really, since Spock had built up the flesh around each.

Each showed variation, yet the identical structure beneath lent an eerily similar quality.  _ Close relatives. Same genetics, but seven faces that led vastly different lives.  _ The strange effect amplified by the pale clay Spock had used to build up the mass and facial features.

Spock had even arranged them in a logical, sliding scale.

On the far side, a face quite similar to how Cygnus appeared now. Barely any muscle mass added, just a bit over the jaw, before a thin film of skin. The thinness of the face accentuated the  _ otherness _ of Cygnus' species. The long face, tending towards snoutishness. Cheekbones appeared higher, more prominent with the layer of skin upon them. What lips Spock had smoothed over the teeth were thin, reached halfway down the gums, leaving Cygnus' front teeth exposed. Eyes sunken into dark pits.

On the near side, Spock had placed the other extreme. Muscle and fat built up a ridge along the bottom of Cygnus' jawbone, squaring the face. A ponderous roll of flesh about the eyes gave the impression of eyebrow ridges, of a soft facial expression. Here, the lips had been formed with generous volume, with a surprising little quirk along the edges. Nearly a smile.

Between these two extremes, a vast array. Ridges of flesh ran up along the top of the skull in one, another had massive buildup of muscle, but not fat. Two had conical ridges surrounding the membrane on either side of the skull that acted as ears, the others were flat with a little build up around to the edge to show where it lived.

“That one […] I am like a […] hunter.” Two fingers pointed towards the thin face. “That,” a point towards the one with buildup forehead ridging. “I am […] male of forward clan. Here,” the fat one. “I bloat with water death.”

Eyes close, then open to stare at the ceiling.

“Voice not my own. Face not my own. I am taken […] and reborn a horror.”

“It's just a starting place, Cygnus. Just tell us what is missing and we will fix it.”

It took a long moment for his eyes to travel back to the sculptures.

“They are all like you, egg stealer. Leonard. Uhura. Smooth-faced […]. How can I tell my face from these without […]”

“Without...” McCoy wracked his brain. Something tickling. An idea. Missing... missing....

Melodic speech. Avian lungs. Cloaca. Eggs.

“Shit. Feathers. Uhura, pull up some feathers on the PADD, will you? Not just earth ones. We're missing the most important part of his skin. I just-”

“Here, I've got a few.” She flipped it around. Cygnus nodded, giving word after word for the structures. He swiped through every image the database could give. Even McCoy's untrained ear could differentiate the separate patterns that came out for each type. The computer chugged away, storing data for use.

“I'm not sure we're going to have enough words to represent all of those,” Uhura said with a smile. “It'll be like that Andorian problem.”

“Andorian problem?”

“ Mmm. Twirty-two words in Andorian for different  _ kinds _ of snow, and all Standard has is 'snow.'”

“These. […] these around my eyes. I can not find mouth-feathers. Neck feathers are,” he swiped quickly. “Here. Ridge display […] over eyes. But I am young.” His chin bobbed a moment. “Not so young, this new voice. No one will know me.”

His eyes closed again.

“Mr. Spock will take the sculptures back and attempt to add a good layer of feathers to each of them. Maybe then you can pick out which is closest.”

“No.” Cygnus' eyes focused on one in particular. Just left of the middle. “That one. Molting time. I have seen my bare flesh. […] long ago. Half forgotten.” His stared at the sculpture a long time. “May I touch?”

“Are they sterile, Mr. Spock?”

“Yes.”

McCoy reached and picked up the one indicated. As he brought it up for Cygnus to examine closer, he realized he could in fact make out little ridges of bone traveling in a definite V formation from between the eyes, right up and over the top of his head. The raised surface on the bone didn't look like much, but he had a feeling Spock had carefully examined them, and found muscle attachments there.

Quite possibly small muscles intended to raise up follicles. Like the hair on the back of his neck. Or a bird to display plumage.

McCoy held up the sculpture to mirror Cygnus' face. His patient tentatively caressed a few folds and crevasses, before huffing in frustration.

“Do not touch others in molt time. Too […].”

“Perhaps... if you could rotate it for him, Leonard? Put it next to his head, so he could be reaching up like this?” Uhura mimed reaching blindly over her own shoulder.

“Would you like to try?”

A blinking nod.

McCoy rotated the clay skull, mindful of the weight as he hovered it in place.  _ My luck I'll drop the thing and collapse a shoulder. _

Cygnus closed his eyes again, his one hand reaching up to touch the long line of his nasal cavity.

“Ridge too shallow. Curve is like […] not thin like this.”

“Didn't catch that word, Cygnus,” Uhura requested clarification, her voice warbling in an attempt to duplicate.

“It is... perfect curve.” His eyes shot open, then flicked back and forth. “Healthy curve, not too sharp.” He reached out to her shoulder, cupping the curve there. “Too steep a curve. Close.”

“I believe he might be describing a concept much like your Earth 'Golden Ratio.' A mathematical construct to explain what, to you, is a beautiful size ratio, but to another species, it is simply another number on the sliding scale.”

“So, you're saying you had a beautiful nose, Cygnus?” Uhura teased gently. His hand retreated.

“I have an idea. Is this sculpture far from accur... correct?” Spock asked, pointing towards the one with the most bulk added on.

“Yes. No. I am not like that.”

“Good. A moment to reclaim the clay.”

“Hurry, Spock, my arms are starting to shake. I'm a doctor, not a body builder, after all.”

The Vulcan wedged the clay against the flat surface recently vacated by the skull McCoy now held, then started to apply sections of it as Cygnus described.

“I recommend haste. Utilizing muscle memory, rather than conscious memory, will give you a more accurate impression.”

Clear eyes turned to McCoy.

“Tell us what you should feel, not what you think you should feel.”

“Don't think about it too much,” Uhura helped.

He nodded, eyes closed, and began a slow exploration of his soon-to-be face. Lip walls too thick, corners not far enough back. The tissue around the eyes a little bit too heavy, but not much. Cheeks needed more build up, the bottom of the jaw as well. Nares, nasal openings, too far forward on the face, and not opened enough to breathe comfortably. He even traced little lines, trying to describe where one type of feather sat, or another. Where the skin should have a waxy texture, where it should be soft, flexible, and porous.

After an hour of minute detail changes, he described the colors and textures of his feathers, from which McCoy had to draw him back.

“Muscle and fat first, then skin. Then we will figure out feathers.”

“I want [...] my princess must recognize me.”

“Princess?” Uhura asked, checking her databanks. They cooed and twilled in that shared, dead language a moment.

“Mother of my children,” he clarified. “When […] rejoined, my princess must recognize me.”

“We will do our absolute best, Cygnus. I promise.”

“If we are finished for today, I would like to take some time to refine this. Reclaim the clay on the rest, and reconstruct the other six yet again, closer to the templet that this model gives. Just to be assured that we have the correct model to be extrapolating from.”

“That's a fine idea, Mr. Spock. And perhaps when you come back, we can have a conversation about your potty mouth.”

Spock collected his assortment of heads, apparently forgetting to cover the ones in the display case.

“Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him Horatio,” McCoy quoted as the Vulcan left, preferred skull in hand, staring at it as he went. A sharp yelp on the other side of the sickbay doors gave him all the satisfaction of watching the drama unfold without the annoyance of having to, once again, go through decontamination procedures to come back in. “A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

“Is the egg stealer friend or foe?”

McCoy ignored Uhura's smile. “Both, and neither. I honestly don't know most days. Uhura, would you mind working on the UT with Cygnus some? It's a good time to do some scans while the new tissue is in use. As long as it doesn't hurt much?”

“Good hurt […] healing hurt.”

“That's the spirit.”

Cygnus and Uhura worked over him as he began his regular scans.

“What is your princess like?”

The question surprised both of the men, it seemed. McCoy went back to his instruments, but couldn't help but be curious.

“This teaches your machine?”

“No, it doesn't, but it gives me an idea of what kind of words, what concepts, we're missing.”

A little huffing sigh lifted Cygnus' ribcage, causing a flicker in the blood-oxygen readings for a moment.

“She is the mother of my eggs,” Cygnus said. McCoy's eyes flicked up to Uhura, watching as she tweaked grammar and word usage to fit human expectations of conversational flow. “What else is there?”

“When did you meet her? When did you fall in love?”

_ Where is she? Was she on your ship with you? Were there others on that flaming slag heap? _

His chin bobbed a moment.

“It is as with any, I suppose. We have known each other since […]. It was the time of meeting, of mating. She said she loved my...” His ruined hand cupped the top of his nasal passage again. “My perfect nose. Hers had a little […] curve.”

McCoy looked up, seeing the gesture. “Tell the computer, concave, or dished.”

Uhura nodded, then gestured for him to continue. “I courted her. My voice... she will not recognize my […] now.

“ She stayed […] from courting, until the eggs.” He puffed up a little at this.  _ Must be important, at least to him. For whatever reason _ . “Stayed another night too. Then... meeting and mating time came. Other […] called her into the dark. But I have our children. My first […].”

His hand came to rest on the glass, in an all-too-familiar caress.

“I don't understand,” Uhura said, tucking her language tricorder down on her lap. “'Meeting and mating'? Why would she leave you after laying her eggs?”

“Not the same with your eggs? You stay with them?”

“Well, in a sense.”

His eyes flicked away again.

“ Females stay long enough [...] eggs. They are laid, and then the female finds another nest. Another worthy male.  _ That _ , is our way.”

“You raise your children alone?”

A nod. “But... my mate will return. She will see how well I care for them, and she will come back to us.”

Uhura passed him a sad glance.  _ Wonder if she's thinking the same 'If I raise your kids, you'll come home, right?' I am. Just replace single mom stuck in the system with single dad with more eggs than digits left and... sheesh. The universe is full of parallels. _

“Leonard. You said earlier. You would be my hands.”

“I already have been, haven't I? Hell, now that we can talk, am I doing right, with the rotations?”

Cygnus' eyes got a pleased little tilt. It'd be nice to see a smiling face though. Soon.

“Yes. Your image-idea helped.”

“Image-idea?”

McCoy blushed at Uhura's scrutiny; Cygnus pulled up a couple of the rotation videos McCoy'd recorded days ago.

“You didn't think […].”

“Ah, another word to work on. Give me a second.”

The dead parrot language didn't have whatever it was they needed to share for comprehension, so they rotated between a couple others.

“Oh!” Uhura tapped her forehead with her palm. “Time. Ick, that's never a fun one to translate. Let's get some baselines.”

Uhura delved right in while McCoy not-so-patiently waited to figure out what the hell he'd been doing wrong. Again, the two of them flipped back and forth between some different languages, then started tapping fingertips against surfaces. McCoy flinched.

“What's that for?”

“Working out relative times. An hour on Vulcan isn't the same as an hour on Earth, because the days are different. And humans divide time based on the rotation of our planet into rather arbitrary sections. So, for basic communication needs, easier to figure out what the smallest practical unit of measurement is, and work up from there.”

Cygnus tapped a series again.

“Ten seconds,” he said, calmly.

“There, that came out just fine. And this,” she tapped herself. “Is our ten seconds.”

“Shorter.”

“Exactly. Okay, so if that's your second, then your minute and hour are going to be-”

“Please don't tell me you’re going to tap that out.”

“No, no point. But now when you say 'one hour,' the computer should switch it to his 'one hour, forty minutes.' Kapesh?”

“Everything but that last word.”

“No wonder Spock thinks your such a pain. Okay, back in conversation. Leonard, you forgot to record a way for Cygnus to indicate time.”

“I didn't think about it, I'm sorry,” McCoy responded, feeling quite guilty. Not that he would have figured out a way to do it anyway.

“No, the time is close. A small time too frequent. Closer to six hours.”

“Really? Six whole hours? Damn, I'll be able to get a whole night's sleep in!”

Cygnus' eyes slipped back and forth between the two of them.

“I wish to ask questions. Private questions.”

McCoy set his scanner down. “Feel free to ask whatever you want to. As your doctor, I have your best interests at heart, and I am sworn to keep your private life private.”

He pointed to Uhura. “She is doctor too?”

“No, Cygnus, but I'd like to be your friend. Friends keep each others' secrets.”

“Many words still broken. Perhaps […] later.”

“No rush,” Uhura insisted with a smile. “Do you feel up to working on the UT little more?”

“ Yes.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

McCoy excused himself to the labs while they worked.

Cygnus' observation, the fact that McCoy was perhaps concentrating too much on facial reconstruction, stuck with him.

He wandered up one row of tables, and down the other, checking growth rates, hormones levels. Reassuring himself that all the pieces of the puzzle were on their way.

“Vocal cords,” he grumbled to himself. With a sigh, he sat down in front of one of the microscopes.

“ _ Bridge to medlabs _ ?”

McCoy shoved himself away from the microscope and flicked on the intercom.

“McCoy here.”

“ _ Ah, good Bones. Just the man I want to talk with. Chekov found an inhabited planet in our search radius. We're putting a landing party together, I'd like you to join us. If you've got the time between babysitting duties, of course _ .”

“Yes, yes Jim. Give me ten and I'll meet you at the transporters. I want to pick up some things from sickbay.”

McCoy didn't quite sneak into his own sickbay, but neither did he announce his arrival. No reason to get hopes up.

He waved Chapel into his office and shut the door.

“Jim's got a fix on an inhabited planet. Here's hoping it's the right one.”

“Oh good!”

“Don't tell them anything yet. We're having enough ups and downs.”

“Of course. Your egg timer?”

McCoy checked it quickly.

“Five hours and change. I'll make sure I'm back before then. Uhura might be able to step in if I'm not back.”

McCoy gathered a variety of items and tucked them into his satchel. If this was Cygnus' planet, he wanted to take detailed visuals, along with medical scans, as many measurements as possible, who knows what types of samples.

He got to the transporter pads a moment before Sulu and Chekov.

“Jim. Any sign this is Cygnus' planet?”

“No subspace transmissions,” Spock replied for the captain. “It is improbable that this is the native planet we are searching for. However, it is possible that this is a colony world. We have detected small settlements along coastal areas.”

“Like the man said, Bones.”

“Then why are you dragging me down there, blast it? I've got better work to do.”

“Spock suggested you could use a little time out. Something about becoming stagnant.”

“Great.”

“Mr. Scott? If you would be so kind.”

In a fizzing flash and pop, the plain walls disappeared in favor of a hilly stretch of land. No sights or sounds of industrial influence. Endless yellow sky above. Simple plants, similar to short grass and clovers, grew between the rocky ridges. Spots of greenish white flowers sprinkled along the pink leaves. The ocean off to the left, however, looked as healthy and blue as any he swam in back home.

“At least it isn't another Garden of Eden. I tell ya, I'm starting to get paranoid whenever we land in any sort of forest or jungle.”

“Ah, the primitive fear responses of a human. From a scientific standpoint, I must admit to being curious. It must be rather exhausting, to jump at every shadow, fear every unseen menace.”

“Unlike the rolling desert, where the very sun will cook your brain in your skull, eh, Spock?”

“Only for those not appropriately adapted to such environments, Doctor.”

“Alright kids, let's head towards civilization now, shall we?”

Chekov did a quick scan. “Major encwampment at heading two mark seventeen. Three clicks.”

“Well then gentlemen, shall we?”

Jim directed a couple security men to take point, following Chekov's directions.

They traveled along the coastline. A couple hundred yards away, McCoy caught sight of a thin ribbon of sand.

“Could be a nice place for a bit of rest and relaxation,” he said conversationally. “If we end up staying here to help Cyngus' recovery.”

“You assume that his people will be unable to do the repairs themselves?”

“He isn't some machine, Spock. He's a living, feeling, caring person. One does not 'repair' a living, breathing being.”

“You are building replacement pieces, working to find components that will be compatible with current equipment, instituting staggered installations to test said compatibility. If you wish, I can contact Mr. Scott for engineering teams. Perhaps they will have more success, considering-”

Kirk help up a hand, silencing the team. He made a gesture. Spock jogged up to the head of the group. They pointed at something on the ground, nodded, and Jim motioned for everyone to follow him.

They paced up a gentle slope. At regular intervals Spock would track sideways, towards the ocean, then return and they would continue on.

Chekov made a sign, using his tricorder to point to where the settlement sat before them, then off towards the land side, farther up that blasted slope.

Just as McCoy started contemplating a tri-ox compound, Jim held up his fist for a halt.

The doctor let himself flop down on short bolder.

“Kirk to Ensign Kelly.”

“ _ Kelly here sir. Nearly at position. _ ”

“Good. Find a hiding place once you get there. Kirk to Ensign Parson. Parson come in.”

Kirk tapped the communicator a few more times, trying to get onto his frequency.

“What's all this hullabaloo? I thought this was going to be a simple walk-in-walk-out.”

“Hull-a-ba-loo, Doctor?” Spock asked from right behind him. “I am unfamiliar with the term.”

“Shit man! Don't sneak up on a man like that.”

The Vulcan tipped his head. “The Captain is organizing a recon team. What has caused all the 'hullabaloo' was a dead body on the path. There was a stone axe deep in the back.”

“And you didn't think to call me up to take a look? I could have done something.”

Spock shook his head. “No. As you would say, 'Too far gone.'”

McCoy stared off at the Captin, who'd gotten a hold of Parson by now, since he issued the two scouts orders to move their way in. _ Hmm. I might hate the forests for their 'hidden dangers,' but this grassland must be killing Kirk. No way to sneak in and get info without being caught ourselves. _

“The dead body; was it like Cygnus?”

“No, Doctor McCoy, it was not.”

With that the Vulcan nodded and returned to the Captain's side to wait for details.

_ Not this planet.  _ McCoy sighed.  _ Not much point in lolligagging about now. Hell, we could beam back up right now and avoid the inevitable- _

“ _ AAH! _ ”

_ Drama. _

“Parson! PARSON! Answer the damn channel Parson!”

“Weapons fire?” McCoy asked.

“No, damn. He was reporting in, then he screamed, and the comm channel went out.”

“Orders, Captain?”

Jim looked back and forth between his senior officers. “Kelly,” he shouted into his comm unit. “Report. Did you have a visual on Parson?”

“ _ No, sir, not since we split up. _ ”

“Retreat and work your way around to where he last reported in. We'll meet you there.”

He closed his communicator and eyed the men around him.

“Bones, if you'd like to stay back with Chekov-”

“You're not getting rid of me that easily, Jim. Let's go find your man.”

“Phasers on stun everyone. L-Formation.”

McCoy fell in step between Chekov and the remaining security officer, medical tricorder ready and sweeping the area for any lifeforms.

They circled around the rocky outcropping they'd used to hide, Kirk setting a pace that kept them crouched low but not slowing. A flicker of bright red caught their attention. Kelly's bright blond hair made it clear which ensign ran to meet them.

“Signs of struggle,” Spock pointed out. He and the captain studied the area of smashed grass and mud, reading who-knows-what from the tracks in the ground. While they pointed here and there, commenting on how several bipeds converged on this area, before separating off again, McCoy took a deeper look in that clay-red mud.

“Blood,” McCoy said, stopping their discussion. He opened up his medical tricorder to take another look. “Not a life threatening amount. It isn't Parson's. Unknown DNA.”

“At least he got his licks in. We'll have to split up, to see which of these three trails he got dragged down.”

“Why don't we just try to beam him up?”

Spock lifted a smashed communicator from the grass. “I'm afraid that won't be very effective, McCoy.”

“Spock, you and Ensign Kelly take the trail towards the settlement. McCoy, you and Chekov take the one towards the beach. Ensign Cooke, you'll go with me. Radio back in ten minutes, regardless.”

“Aye, Captain,” they chorused.

McCoy let Chekov take point as they took the lower path towards the blue ocean ahead. He had to trust the young Russian's ability to trace where the grass had been beaten down, because he couldn't see it for the life of him.

“Govno!” Chekov flicked open his communicator. “Keptin, this trail goes to a deert road, fweekwently twaveled. Keent tell if they went to the teown or away.”

“ _ Stand by then, and keep out of sight. I don't want my CMO running on a wild goose chase. _ ”

“Stand by?” McCoy repeated after Chekov closed the lid. “Bull. Come on, kid. We know they're heading back to town.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Spock was running back and forth to this road the whole way here. He would have seen someone. Come on, Ensign.”

McCoy shoved past the young man and led up the road.

“Sir, shouldn't we take cover?”

“What cover? We'll see them as they see us, plenty of distance. You heard the Captain, they've got no energy weapons. They'll have to sneak up on the both of us to catch us off guard. And you're a decent shot, right?”

“Decent enough sir, but-”

“But?”

“Ensign Parson is a much better shot, and they snuck up on him.”

“Wonderful.”

McCoy shook his head and stamped off back in the direction of the town. Chekov kept sweeping his eyes, and his tricorder, around. McCoy tried to keep an eye out for obvious breaks in the grass to either side of the path, but he didn't have the eye for that that Jim did, that's for sure.

“Doctor, there're the bwildings.”

If McCoy had been expecting a built up colony, prefabbed even forms in the typical cookie-cutter style, he'd be mistaken. These little shacks would be more at home in the highlands of Scotland, than the colonies of Mars.

Even from here, he could see the regular thin plates of slate stacked one on top of the other, the same type of stone he'd sat on minutes before. The same gray stone that littered the grasslands all around them. Halfway up the walls, the stone shifted over to a pale gray stucco, topped with the pink grass in a regular thatch pattern. A little paler than the grass they walked through, thanks to slow bleaching from the white dwarf star this planet orbits.

“They don't look space fairing,” Chekov commented glumly.

“Don't judge a culture by their construction methods, Ensign.”

“Sir, shouldn't we-”

McCoy held up a hand to silence him. Dark silhouettes against those pale houses made his fingers itch to start medical scans.

Several broke away from the structures. Dark, long, sinuous bodies rushing for them. His little hand held unit didn't have the range to go the couple hundred yards.  _ Won't do any good. _ The communicator on the other hand....

“Jim?” McCoy asked, after flicking open the lid. “Your CMO didn't listen to orders. We might need a rescue in a minute.”

He tucked it back in his pack, muted but open.

“Doctor....”

“If you think you can outrun centaurs, Mr. Chekov, you're welcome to try.”

McCoy held his hands open, palm out towards the creatures as they rushed towards them. Chekov mirrored him.

They didn't look quite like centaurs, but close enough. Three pairs of legs underneath the main trunk of the body propelled the creature with surprising speed. Who knows what the agility would be like, with that much of a tangle just waiting to happen.

Rudimentary bows and arrows, the height of stone-age tools, in each set of hands. Well, upper set of arms held the bows at the ready, string drawn tight, an arrow as big as a spear notched in each. The lower set of arms, smaller and less muscular, held spare arrows tight to the sinuous sides.

Bare flesh brought an obvious blush to Chekov's cheeks, but hell, they've got better things to worry about than Russian sense of propriety.

McCoy had more interest in the sloping forehead, widely spaced eyes, and warthog tusks.  _ Why, I do believe we have a herbivore, with as much fight as flight. _

_ And it's the fight I'm worried about _ .

“We mean you no harm,” McCoy stated in a quiet, even voice. “We're just looking for a friend.”

“Strange monsters!”

“Bright creatures!”

“Weird coverings.”

“Of course the UT works for them,” he grumbled to himself.

“What is this Ooo Tea?”

_ I'm a doctor, not a diplomat. _

“ I realize we look a bit strange to you, but if you'll let me explain  _ UGH!” _

He caught the flash of a fist a moment before total blackness sucked him in.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“You shluha vokzal'naja! You won't get away with this!”

“Chekov....”

“You're all sons of slime devils! Let us go!”

“Chekov! Ug, my head hurts too much for all that yelling. Where are we?”

“They dragged us in to the middle of the town, sir. Beeg pit in the middle of the bwildings.”

McCoy eyed the opening to the yellow sky above.

“Guess we're just lucky they didn't line the pit with spikes. Oh, help me up, would you?”

Chekov angled him up.

“You've got quite the goose egg, sir.”

“Hmm. You're telling me.” He reached to examine the lump at his temple, flinched, and went for his medical tricorder instead.

“They took your bag, our tricorders.”

“Your weapon?”

“I ah... dropped it.” Chekov offered a shy grin. “On the way in. They didn't know me out.”

“Good man. No reason to introduce phasers to stone age society. Any sign of Parson?”

“No, sir.”

“Damn.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“If our bulky friends up there had grabbed him, like they grabbed us, I'd bet that they would have tossed him in here too.”

“So, what grabbed him?”

“That, my young friend, is the question of the day.”

McCoy stood up with a groan. _What would the Captain do about now?_

_Find a cute female to help him out of here._

Between Chekov and the ten limbed warthogs on the ground floor, he had no interesting in going that route.

“I'm going to regret this in the morning, hell, I regret it now, but Chekov, I want you to climb up on my shoulders.”

“Vat?”

“Come on, come on. Quickly.”

If the pit had been dug to contain a person, it was designed for the long, heavy bodies; about five feet across and about nine feet deep; it'd be cramped for one of those centaurs. Sides sloped a smidgen. Dry, hard packed earth. McCoy didn't let himself wonder why they'd have a pit like this in the center of their village.

McCoy laced his fingers together.

“Hurry up, man.”

“I shouldn't step on a superior officer.”

“Consider it an order then. Just peek over the edge, and see what you can see. Careful now. I've already got one bump on my skull, I don't need a collection.”

The younger man gnashed his lip between his teeth as he settled his foot in McCoy's hands. He got the opposite knee onto his shoulder before they started wobbling back and forth.

“Take it easy up there, would you?”

“I would if you'd hold still,” Chekov hissed.

Another unbalanced waver slammed the doctor's shoulder into the hard wall behind him.

“There, I've got an edge now.” Chekov clambered up, the sharp heels of his regulation boots digging in painfully.

“Can you see anyone?”

“No, sir. I hear shouting. Towards the hill.”

“Human shouting? Or centaur shouting?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well do you think you can climb out, Ensign?”

“Oh... I'm not quite high enough.”

Before McCoy could suggest they set him down and perhaps try digging foot and hand holds out of the dirt behind him, Chekov placed his dirty boot squarely on top of the doctor's head.

“Great. Now I'm a doctor and a step stool. Just get up fast, would you?”

With a shove to give him momentum, the younger man vaulted up the lip.

“Still no sign of anyone?”

Silence. Telling silence.

“Damn it man, if you've left me in here-”

McCoy ducked away from two gold-clad bodies tossed right back over the edge.

“Why Bones!” Jim blinked up at him. Bleary, and sporting a bright red goose egg of his own. “I've been wondering where you were.”

“Well, you found me,” McCoy grumbled. “Congratulations.”

Chekov groaned.

“You will not escape,” a big voice called down to them. _Sounds more like a statement of facts, rather than a suggestion._

“Doesn't look like it, does it?”


	15. Chapter 15

“So, care to fill me in?” McCoy asked while he poked and prodded his captain the old fashioned way.

“We got your ah... rather unorthodox call. Spock made it over first, of course, but they already had you slung over their shoulders like a sack of potatoes, so he couldn't fire. Stun setting doesn't work on them, by the way. Just shrug it off. Ouch! What are you doing Bones?”

“Checkin' for broken ribs. I think you've got one. Maybe two, but you're not coughing up blood – _yet_ – so you should be fine until we get you back to sickbay.”

“Good to hear. Chekov, you alright?”

“Aye, Keptin.”

“Good. So, he came back to report, we regrouped. I attempted to ah... open negotiations?”

“I am going to assume that did not go well, considering you're down here with us.”

“Yes, well, I'd hoped that Parson would be with you. I figured, worse came to worse, if I kept my communicator with me that at least Scotty could beam us back up.”

McCoy looked him up and down.

“Don't see it on you. Please don't tell me you swallowed it or something equally disturbing.”

Jim's sheepish smile turned McCoy's stomach.

“Sorry Bones, I didn't think that quick. They've got mine too. Left my phaser with the team, at least. Yours?”

“Didn't bring one,” McCoy answered.

“Dropped mine in the high grass when we were captured,” Chekov replied at the same time.

“Good. Now we just need to work our way out and we'll be golden.”

“Easy enough for you, I'm sure Captain.” McCoy smirked at his friend.

“Well, Bones, it wouldn't be the first time. So, any ideas?”

“When I hoisted the kid up on my shoulders he got plucked up pretty quick.”

“Yeah, it's flat up there. We were right I the middle of an argument about your release when they saw his head come up. Doubt we'll be able to pull that one again. Got a spoon?”

“Ha. No. And considering all the shale, or the local equivalent, around here, last thing I want to do is start digging to find myself picking the one direction that leads to underground boulders. Where would we dig to, anyway?”

“Ze beach?”

“Ah, that beach Jim. Half an hour ago, I was thinking this would be a good R 'n R planet.”

“Half an hour? Boy you did take a good one to the head. We've been here three hours already. It's going to be sun down soon.”

“Wonderful.” He sighed and let himself flop back down in the dirt. _Three hours. That means in less than two, I should be up doing my babysitting duties, and I was too chickenshit to even admit that I was going planetside._

“Uhura's keeping an eye on things, Bones. We'll get you back up to your patient soon enough.”

“Next possible planet? I'm letting you and the hobgoblin come down on your own. I'm going to stay in my nice, safe, climate controlled sickbay.”

“Maybe next time you wait until you get radio signal back,” Chekov helpfully suggested. “That vay none of us stuck in deep pit.”

“An excellent suggestion Mr. Chekov,” Jim replied. The wattage on his smile turned down a bit after he glanced up at the sky again.

“So, what was Plan B?”

“I think that one was, 'Have Parson and Kelly circle around for a better look.' We then went on to Plan C, 'Have security personnel captured by unknown aliens far from Federation space.' And of course there's plan D, 'Get _all_ high ranking officers captured in attempts to save lower ranking crew.' No offense, Mr. Chekov.”

“None taken.”

“You've still got one or two on the loose,” McCoy cheered. He let his head flop back onto the dirt behind him. “But give it a day or two, and then... hello there.”

The eye peering over the edge retracted suddenly.

The doctor held up a hand to stop the others from verbally reacting. He glanced over at Jim. _Think you can work your charming magic?_

A ill look on Jim's face told the doctor he knew exactly what McCoy was thinking.

“I am _not_ -”

McCoy shushed him.

“Hello up there,” McCoy tried again.

The top of the head ducked farther away, before peeking back over the edge.

“Hello.”

The doctor smiled as warmly as he could.

“My name is Leonard, what's yours?”

“Fanna. What about you, and you?”

“I'm Jim, and this is Pavel. It's nice to meet you, Fanna.”

“Leonard, Jim, Pabel,” Fanna repeated, pointing to each in turn. They all nodded. _She's close enough anyway._ “Daddy says I should be watching you.”

“Oh?”

“I'm supposed to scream if you try to climb out again.”

“That makes sense.”

“How did you climb out? You're so tiny. What are you? Are you babies or something? How big will you get? What happened to your legs? You don't have any horns. You must be babies. Where's your Daddy?”

 _A child?_ Jim mouthed to McCoy, who shrugged.

“My friend climbed on my shoulders,” the doctor answered honestly, for lack of better ideas. “We're adults; we're supposed to be this size. And this is the usual number of legs, and arms, for our species.”

“You look weird.”

“I suppose we do, don't we.”

“Why are you here? Where do you come from?”

“We're from very, very far away. One of our friends got lost, so we've been looking for him. Maybe you've seen him? He is... bright red. Like this color,” Jim answered, poking at a bit of blood welled up at his temple.

“Daddy says your a liar. Demons who spin falsehoods. He says you're the demons who steal children away at night.”

“Demons that steal children?”

Fanna nodded, her little tusk buds tapping the ground in her excitement. She flinched and one of her hands covered the tip of it.

“Ow.”

“Do you think we can talk to your Daddy, Fanna dear?”

“He is busy. Elders trying to decide if they should cook and eat you, or skin you and make talismans to keep away other demons.”

“Great.”

She ducked her head again.

“Your people eat meat?” McCoy asked. _Guess my earlier assumptions were wrong._

“I've never eaten meat,” Fanna replied, her voice gone to a whisper. “It is a forbidden thing.”

“Oh? But why would they eat us then?”

“If we eat demon flesh, then maybe we get their strength and knowledge.”

“Vat strength? Dey overtook us before we could do a damn ting.”

“How long have demons been stealing children? How many have been taken?”

The girl thought a while, counting off fingers first on her smaller, secondary hands before moving up to her larger ones.

“This many,” she decided, holding up three sets of five fingers and two fingers up on the last one.

“That many, huh? That's a lot of children.”

She nodded, tucking her face back down so only her eyes showed.

“You're not the children stealing demons,” she whispered.

“Nope, we are not. But how do you know that?”

“I stayed up late... a couple times. I saw... things go into homes. You're too small.”

Jim nodded, grinning ear to ear.

“Yes, I believe we are. I don't think I could pick you up, even with the help of these two big, strong men at my side.”

Chekov looked ready to argue, but McCoy put a hand on his shoulder. _Let the man work, you idiot. James T. Kirk can charm women like the Pied Piper... no matter the age or species._

_Ya know, I think I should suggest Spock write a study on him. Imagine the Vulcan scandal with that!_

“No, you are too small.”

“You know, staying up late to see what the demons look like, is a pretty brave thing. I betcha they never show up in day time, only at night when they're extra scary. And they do sound very big and scary too! To be able to steal so many away from their homes.”

She nodded. A little chittering purr tinkled over the edge of their pit. _That's it man. A few more compliments and we'll be in the home stretch._

“A big brave girl like you should have no problem telling her father what those demons actually looked like. And do you know why?”

“No, why?”

“Because if the adults do eat us, not only will they be eating forbidden flesh – _blegh! –_ but everyone will think the demons are defeated! And you know they won't be. No one will be staying up to guard the families, will they? That'll be a bad thing, won't it?”

“Very bad,” she agreed.

“Besides,” Jim said, starting to stretch for ideas. “If they eat us, we won't be able to fight the bad demons!”

“Bad demons?”

“Of course. The bad demons show up at night and steal children away. They are big, and scary, aren't they? We show up during the day, we are little, and not scary at all, are we? We're here to help fight off these bad night demons.”

“-Jim,” McCoy growled. “We can't interfere.”

“Oh come on, Bones. With our scanners, it'll be a few minutes to see what's up.”

McCoy sighed and let the master do his work.

“So, what do you say, Fanna? Can you get your dad for us? So we can tell him why we're here? That we aren't like the big, scary demons you've seen at night?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“They're far away. I'm supposed to stay and make sure you don't climb out.”

“Pinky promise. We won't try to escape while you go get your dad, okay?”

“Pinky promise?”

Jim reached up his hand, little finger extended. “It's our most solemn oath. If I'm lying, you get to bite my finger off.”

“Jim!”

“Keptin!”

Kirk rolled his eyes. “You've got to stick your pinky out like this too, thatta girl.” He hooked his little finger around hers and gave it a little shake. “That means you promise to get your dad, and I promise to stay here until you get back.”

Fanna stared at her little finger in horror. “If I don't?”

“I get to bite _your_ finger off.”

She let out a little _eep!_ and ran off to, hopefully, get an adult.

“That's morbid Keptin.”

“As long as it gets the job done.”

“Yahuh,” McCoy shook his head at his friend. “And here I thought you had a god-given-gift with all members of the female species. Now I know your secret. You threaten to bite body parts off.”

With a sigh, he let his head fall back to the cool dirt again. _Damn. I feel a serious migraine coming on._


	16. Chapter 16

_They had a while to wait._

Jim paced back and forth, adding dizziness to McCoy's growing headache.

“So, what do we have, Bones?”

“A sledgehammer to the skull?”

“Alright, they're physically strong. Somewhere in the stone age.”

“Later stone age, if you're going to insist on being specific. Bows and arrows.”

“I saw stone tips. And pink fletching, so that'd be the grass. Haven't seen any birds, or whatever, with feathers for that. What do you think of that whole forbidden to eat meat thing? They look pretty ferocious.”

“I'm guessing those tusks are like a deer's antlers. Or an elephants. Display and defense, rather than hunting and killing.”

“Some defense,” Chekov grumbled.

“Of course, I could be wrong, Jim. I'm sure Spock would be happy to point out that the ratio of carnivorous, or omnivorous, sapient species is much higher than herbivorous. And an even lower probability that there are two apex species on one planet.”

“ Wait... you're thinking  _ another _ alien is stealing their children?”

“One without transporters, if they're sneaking in through the doors at night. Or maybe their targeting systems suck.”

“If we found this planet, its possible someone else did too.”

“In this corner of the galaxy? It's practically deserted.”

“Might be Orions.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “What use would Orions have for these-”

“Sirs!”

A cluster of tusked adults loomed far overhead.

Fanna leaned against one, all four of her arms wrapped around one of his smaller arms. Daddy dearest held the most massive set of chompers of the lot; an upper set curved into a spiral so complete they formed circles, while others pointed in long, threatening spikes down or away.

_ Bet it's darn hard to chew with those things _ .

“That day demon is called Leonard, Daddy,” Fanna whispered loudly. “That one is Pabel. And that one is Jim.”

“My daughter calls you 'day demons.' She insists that you are here to help.”

“Fanna is correct, sir. We are not here to steal anyone away. We were passing through when one of our friends was taken.”

“You were sneaking around our village. You would not be stalking around if you had honorable intentions.”

“I told my men to split up, to look for our lost friend. We heard him shout, and when we got to the place where we had left him, there were several trails leaving from that spot. Leonard and Pavel here took a trail that led them close to where the village is.”

“We greeted you with open hands,” McCoy supplied. “No weapons. If we had been sneaking around to do harm to your people, don't you think we would have defended ourselves?”

“You are small and light. How would you defend yourselves?”

Jim grinned. “Exactly. We're too small to harm any of your people. The demons haunting you at night must the ones who stole our friend, unless you are hiding him in another pit.”

The adults disappeared. Their voices rolled over one another.

“I sink dey're going to eat us.”

“No, Pavel. We've got a good friend in Fanna. I'm sure we're fine.”

McCoy tried to not roll his eyes at the thought, but a long, muscled, scarred arm stuck down into the pit.

“Dark is coming soon. If you can defeat these night demons, then you will go free.”

“How thoughtful,” Jim muttered, taking the hand offered to him.

The captain disappeared up and over the edge. McCoy found himself hauled up soon after.

“You're friend will remain here, as bait.”

“I should've zeen dat one comink.”

McCoy exchanged a glance with Jim, but kept his mouth shut.

The moment their brightly colored uniforms were visible, i.e. above ground, another blue clad officer appeared in the distance.

“He's with me,” Jim said, as Fanna's father reached for his bow. “He isn't a threat.”

“We've seen him running about. With the red ones. And those lights.” He rubbed at a swollen patch along his side. “They hurt.”

“Mr. Spock is a pacifist, but those red men are my, erm, guards. The lights aren't supposed to kill, we never want to kill anyone, just scare someone away.”

“It didn't work,” Fanna's father growled, his spiral tusks bracketing Jim's face as he leaned into the captain's personal space.

“Can I have my bag?” McCoy asked, eager to put another foot on the “good guy” side of this argument, for Chekov's sake if nothing else.

“So you can pull more weapons on us?”

“No, so I can help the swelling go down.”

After some serious glaring on all fronts, Fanna tugged on her father's arm. He gave the long suffering sigh all father's gain after the first couple years.

“Go and get it, Fanna.”

She bleeped a happy note, disappeared and reappeared before Spock'd even reached the outskirts of the little village.

McCoy demonstrated the dermal regenerator on Jim's forehead, closing the wound and reducing some of the swelling. Without being calibrated for the new species, it didn't work  _ quite _ as well on the big centaur, but the widened eyes and gasps from the nine foot tall critters at least showed they understood that he was a  _ healer _ , and thus, even less likely to be doing bad mischief in their part of the world.

“Too bad it's only the emergency one,” McCoy groused as he worked. “If I had my big unit, I'd be able to get those ribs of yours into better shape.”

“I'll be careful, Bones.”

He snorted at this but kept his mouth shut as Spock finally came abreast of their small group.

“No weapons, Mr. Spock?”

“No, sir.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren't such a stickler for the regs. Alright, well, we got an idea of what happened from Fanna, but maybe you could explain it in more detail... Mister, uh....”

“Father Cannaceae,” Fanna's father supplied. McCoy wondered if the UT was trying to translate the familial relation, or using the more religious context.

In the end, it didn't really matter, as the families of the missing children gathered around in a tight knot around them. Competing voices clamored to be heard.

It'd been going on for weeks, it seems. Some families lost every one of the kids.

It was the same across the board. Everyone asleep, no cry of alarm or fear. Guards posted the past couple nights, but even then, the younglings were spirited away. Fanna clutched tightly onto Father Cannaceae. It seemed she was one of only a handful left in her age range. A human handful, at that.

“Has this been happening to other villages?” Jim asked.

The centaurs looked between each other.

“This is our home. This is all that is.”

“...so, there isn't anyone else? No one beyond the fields outside the village?”

“This place is all that God saw fit to grant us, after he carved our bodies from this very earth.”

_ A religious title, then. So much for thinking I'd escaped another 'garden of eden' planet. _

“ Alright, Spock? Sun's setting. How about we call in a few of our  _ friends _ and see if we can establish a perimeter. Make sure nothing comes in or goes out.”

“Inadvisable, Captain. If we make our presence known, it is unlikely the kidnappers will return. I recommend more covert surveillance. Perhaps we can place guards within each home.”

“How about communicators on the kids themselves?” McCoy suggested. “That way if someone does get nabbed, we can track them, transport them back if necessary.”

“An interesting suggestion, Doctor.”

McCoy felt a little tug on his sleeve.

“Leonard? What's a communicator?”

He smiled down at Fanna and tugged his, still open, out of his medical bag. “This is a communicator.” He pressed the frequency sweeping button to make it whistle.

She bleeped again and snatched it from his hands. “What's it do?”

“It's... like a magic box,” Jim said, bending down to her level and pressing a button. “Here, let me show you. Jim to Scotty, come in please.”

“ _Scott here, ouch is good tae hear ye laddie. Have ye found de odder lads then?”_

“Not quite yet, Scotty, but we're getting close. Found Leonard and Pavel, at least.” Thankfully, Mr. Scott didn't question Jim's sudden change in nickname choice. “We've got an idea to find everyone else, but we're going to need some resources. Can you send down some more security guys? And a few extra communicators. Say... twenty? Keep the scanners going too. I want to know if anything flies in or out of here, and I want the transporter room ready to beam up everyone at a moment's notice.”

“ _ Aye, aye, sir. Scott out. _ ”

Father Cannaceae glared down a them. “Flies? Transporter? What sort of language is this?”

“The language of demons and magic spells, Father Cannaceae. You'll just have to trust us.”

And thanks to Jim's “magic spells,” a line of crewmen in security red appeared on the horizon just as the setting sun began casting long shadows across the village center.

“Father Cannaceae, can you gather the rest of the children? We should show them how to call my ship for help.”

“Your... ship?”

“A vessel on the ocean,” Spock said, before Jim could say any more goofs. Bad enough he was rattling on with their motions of demons and magic spells.

“Vessel?”

“A type of container that-”

“Spock, just cool it.” McCoy said. “Look, Father Cannaceae. Once we've found the kids, and our friend, we'll be on our way.”

“And you'll take your demented weapons and spells with you?”

“Of course.”

“Fine.” Father Cannaceae turned to a few of the other males with impressively curved tusks. “Bring the children, all of them. Quickly, while there is still daylight. I want these demon wars done with. God gave us this land to tend to. If He sees fit to grant us guardians to keep Evil at bay, who am I to turn this aid away?”

Fanna stuck by McCoy's side, asking insightful question after question while he showed mothers and children exactly which buttons to push, while Jim and Spock tried to wrangle the men into some sort of militia.

“What'll you do to the bad demons, when you find them?” she asked in a hushed tone after Spock assigned the guards to travel home with each family.

“We make sure they go away and never steal children again.”

“And then you'll go away?”

“Yes.”

“ But how will you  _ keep  _ them away, if you don't stay to keep us safe?”

McCoy looked over her shoulder at his commanding officers.  _ And that's a  _ very  _ good question. And so very hard to explain to a young girl that, in reality, the moment we find our missing officer, according to the regs, we need to be gone. Ideally with all evidence of our being here obliterated. _

“It's getting dark why don't you go ahead and head home with your father.”

“Daddy is going to be out guarding tonight.”

“So who's going to stay with you?”

“No one! I'm old enough to be alone.”

“Aaaand you've just earned yourself a new bunkmate, kid. Spock? Who's assigned to Fanna?”

“Ensign Kelly and myself. Is this satisfactory?”

“Yeah. I think I'll join your team. Come on, kiddo. Lead the way home.”

She clung to his arm, much like she'd done with her father, and grew quiet as darkness closed in around them.

The home she led them to was smack dab in the center of it all. Probably the best protected, by location if nothing else. Slightly bigger than the others, the shale of the walls shorter, showing more daub and wattle. The pale color reflected the last meager touch of light as she lifted the door out of the way. The crude hinge little more than a couple loops of cording. No lock or latch that he could see.

No fire, or hearth. A couple neat piles of dried grass looked to be about the right size for a bed for the big creatures; the smaller of the pair decorated with a woven pallet, a few braids of grass and cord, and delicate loops hooked into the walls above decorated with shells and stones.

“Do day demons eat?” Fanna asked.

“We sure do.”

“I can find you something... Father always feeds guests. I can't use the oven, though, 'cause it's dark out.”

“That does not matter, Fanna,” Spock answered, setting several scanning devices on the low table. “It is unlikely we could eat your food, regardless. The sentiment is appreciated, however.”

“What does all that mean, Leonard?”

“It means that demons eat demon food. People eat people food. And thank you for the offer.”

She nodded and yawned. “Time for sleep.”

“Extreme diurnal?” Spock suggested, as Fanna collapsed onto her pallet and fell asleep without further comment.

“Possible. Also, she's a kid and she just had a big day. Ya know, what with the communing with demons and all.”

Kelly chuckled, but Spock did an excellent job of  _ not  _ rolling his eyes.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Waiting is a funny business. After the adrenaline spikes of the day, the running around, the being thrown into a pit, even with the impromptu “nap” he had, thanks to their “hosts,” exhaustion and boredom dragged at him. If it weren't for the ever-ready Commander Spock, and the eager young Kelly, he'd suck at his internal resources, apply a stim, maybe do some breathing exercises, and push on.

As it was, protected position, armed guards, superior Vulcan hearing? McCoy took a seat on the corner of Fanna's pallet, phaser in his lap, leaned against the crude wall, and allowed himself to dose.

So when a pained grunt and the crash of technology hitting a dirt floor jerked him awake, he didn't feel too guilty for throwing himself over his charge, rather than more sanely turning on his hand lamp and firing into the dark.

The sharp prick of a needle hit him in the side and a deeper darkness flooded his system.

When consciousness leaked back into his brain, a high pitched squealing filled his ears. A numb tingling started at the end of his extremities, building in intensity until his veins were burning with it.

McCoy grit his teeth and waited out the sensation; he'd dealt with a variety of sedatives over the years, human and alien. Whatever they'd used wasn't built for his system, but it was close enough to be effective. At least for a little while.

He didn't feel anything tying his hands or feet, so they assumed he'd be out for a while yet.

The sniping, for anything that high pitched might very well've come from his shrew of a ex-wife, drew away, along with a few sets of heavy footfalls.

McCoy chanced opening his eyes.

Cool, grey rock face of a cave wall swept up over him. Quite the cavern, considering how the dark enveloped the roof of the place. Pools, various sizes and cut into the walls and floor all around, glowed. Bioluminescence or chemicals, he couldn't tell without a medical scanner.

Medical scanner!

He reached for the strap he'd left crossing his chest while he'd been napping, surprised to feel the sturdy canvas still secure.

No alien technology he could see; no cameras telling on him. So, he reached for his scanners and started a general sweep.

Bioluminescence, then. He immediately turned his swirling wand to Fanna, prone at his side. Deeply asleep. Nearly in stasis. Her respiration and heart rate, no, hearts rate, so incredibly slow. But he didn't see any detrimental effects to her mind or body.

A quick scan of his own system showed liver and kidneys in distress. Likely, he'd be jaundiced for a few days after this escapade, even if he got back to the ship soon for treatment.

Fanna's communicator was left back in her home, but McCoy's was still in his bag. Of course, we're too blasted deep underground for it to work.

He shut the unit and tossed it back in his bag.

Alright, McCoy, take stock. You've got a medical scanner, one comm unit, a dermal regenerator, wound sealer, Jim's Epinephrine, tri-ox, and some basic painkillers. And an unconscious girl, likely over a hundred kilos. Not that I'm gonna put my back out even attempting to carry her.

So, try scouting ahead, see if I can get an idea of how to get out of here, leaving Fanna unprotected and by herself? Or, stay here and wait for Jim and Spock to find me.

General track record, they'll stumble across me. Eventually.

Question is, will our new hosts be back by then.

After a few more minutes of gnashing his teeth, he ripped a strip of fabric free from his undershirt and tied his open communicator to Fanna's upper waist. Everything that'd been left behind – Fanna's communicator, his phaser, his flashlight – had been loose and left behind. As if their captors simply lifted them up and those precious items dropped.

Hopefully, if Fanna woke up and he wasn't there, she'd understand to keep it with her.

The tricorder barely illuminated more than the little pools of glowing pond scum.

The ceiling of the cave was chipped and pitted. Dry. A “dead cave,” without stalactites. Not a normal formation back home on Earth, especially with so many pools filled with life, but who's to say what'd be normal here?

McCoy only saw one entrance to the big cavern, so he headed for it.

Before the glow of light stretched to the lip, he turned it off and headed for one of the walls. He might not've taken all the tactical courses some of crew did, but he'd heard enough horror stories after the fact to know the basics of what not to do. Bad enough his heeled boots echoed loud enough to wake the dead.

But... the echoes could work for him too.

He paused at the entrance, listening with all his might. Low whispers lead him down a narrow passage, which opened up in a spiderweb of other passages.

He tugged out the tube of wound seal and laid a smear, just large enough for the tricorder to pick up, down the direction he chose. At each new turn, he repeated the procedure.

The screeching sound he heard earlier growing steadily louder.

The passages narrower.

The little pools of light sprouted farther, and farther away.

Until, finally, he was plunged into total darkness. The only indication of his travel the last flicker of green growing smaller and smaller behind him, until a curve finally extinguished even that.

A hand out to either side traced the walls. Not even stretched that far, now. He stopped, periodically, to open up his tricorder and swing the medical scanner around. The screen, even set to its dimmest, bleaching the cones and rods. The distance too great to pick up anything past the slime on the walls.

So, on and on he went through the dark. Fingers grazing dry dirt, then stone, then something moss-like, and back again. The screeching oddly soothing with its rhythmic quality; as much as nails on chalkboard could be, anyhow. He stooped, as the ceiling closed in; an odd ledge here or there threatening to give him another goose egg.

McCoy paused in the dark, as the sound of choked sobs echoed down to him in pathetic little hiccups. A sharp smack of flesh on flesh silenced it.

He picked up his pace, pushing forward until he tripped over something large, warm.

The thing whimpered and cringed away.

McCoy reached out without thought, relief flooding him as his fingers touched bare, tough leathery skin, prickled by the occasional coarse hair.

His fingernails dug into thin, narrow shoulders, eliciting another whimper. The rhythmic chalkboard sounds ahead continued on, unheeded.

Conscious of how easily sound carried, he groped a bit until he could cover the wide, small-tucked mouth.

“Keep quiet,” he whispered. The hiccuping ceased, and he felt a nod against his hand.

McCoy kept a hand on an upper arm as he backed up the narrow crevasse. Every so often he felt a hesitation from his new companion, but a little tug got the feet moving again. That incessant scratching quieted to a irritating whisper.

“Who are you?”

“A friend of Fanna's,” McCoy whispers without hesitation. “Are the rest here too?”

“In other tunnels. Jaina is in this one, with me.”

A tickling at the back of McCoy's skull was all the warning he got before a rockfall slammed into his shoulder, shoving him bodily into his unseen companion.

A multitude of hands hoisted him out of the rubble.

“Hurry! Run! They'll beat you if-”

Another mass of rocks descended; the cascade opening from on high and pouring out over them.

“Come on!” McCoy grabbed the kid by the arm – no way he was letting this one out of his sight... feel, whatever – and ran like the dickens.

Running, occasionally bringing the tricorder up just long enough to get a read on where the hell they were headed, quickly extinguishing the light and plunging his poor rods and cones back into subterranean darkness. Great mixture for coming up with a plan to get the hell out of here.

Ugly, wet, hacking coughs followed him, shaking the arm he held.

A few yards farther back, something between that chalkboard sound from before and what might've been a million millipedes preforming synchronized marching relentlessly hunted them.

At one of the larger junctions, McCoy took a big chance and headed down a new path; no way he was leading whatever that was back to Fanna. Here and there the path was again dotted with the bioluminescent pools. Blinding bright after hours without. The ability to see tantalizing. Calling the doctor to glance back, see exactly what kind of monster steals children from their beds and drags them down into the deep.

When he got a look, he wished he hadn't.

Down another dark tunnel, and another. Then another large junction, with several choices.

That maddening sound paused here, before plunging after them. Tireless. Relentless. But-

A sliver of an idea. Just a tiny spark, but-

“Can they see?” McCoy hissed to the child.

“I... dunno.”

He grit his teeth, pulled out his tricorder and wished to all hell he'd snagged someone else's, for once. Up close medical scans, like a walking-speed search for the clotting proteins from that styptic, no problem. Trying to find a blind alley while-

There! He felt it, more than read the scan, but hell it didn't matter. He shoved the boy ahead of him into the narrow passage and scooted back as far as he could get. A hand back over the kid's mouth and snout to keep him even from breathing.

Holding his own, ragged, too-god-damn-old-to-be-doing-this-shit-anymore-self breath hurt like hell.

The horror in the dark grew louder. Louder. Unseen. Worse, for having a glimpsed of all those millions of tentacles, and those friggin' insane claws extending out before it. Louder. Closer. Until-

McCoy felt the rolling heat of the thing. Shivered. Bit his lip to keep from screaming out in terror. Hell, he'd swear he felt the thing brush against the knee he couldn't get tucked in.

And then, it was gone.

Just like that.

Going down the tunnel. Scythe claws stretched out before it. Searching for prey now behind it.

For one insane minute, he very nearly reached in to his bag for something, anything. Incompatible painkillers? A needle filled with air? Anything! Something to turn into a weapon and-

A deep shiver wracked him.

No.

No, never turn the healing arts against someone, anyone, anything, no matter how terrifying. Do no harm applies to all. Especially the scary creatures. Otherwise the doctor becomes the scary creature.

He clamped his hand back around the boy's upper arm and dragged him out of the niche.

Eventually the tricorder picked up his trail of breadcrumbs.

In the perpetual dark, he had no idea how long he'd been gone from Fanna's still sleeping side.

The boy slumped in an exhausted heap next to her.

“Here, let me get a look at you.”

He'd tossed a hand across his eyes; the dim glow of the pool too bright for him.

Even at a distance, McCoy could see how swollen his hand was. All of them, he realized. Cuts, gouges, scrapes, from hauling rock and dirt, and the expected infection to go with it. The tricorder had a hell of a time trying to figure out if his lungs were also infected, but after a quick calibration from Fanna, the high-pitched squealing settled down to a normal distressed bleep.

“What are you?” the tuskless boy asked, eventually.

“Fanna calls me a day demon,” McCoy grumbled, turning a hand over. He dug out the tweezers in his landing kit, rarely used, and damn but this set didn't meet up right. He had to dig a bit before he finally got a spiderweb thin filament out of a particularly nasty pustule.

They sat in silence while the doctor tugged out all of the foreign matter he could without soap, water, and a stiff bristled brush. It took him a good long while to admit defeat and just run the wound seal over everything. Short term solution. I've just locked an insane amount of contaminated material in against his skin with no chance of escape.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it, Doctor?

He looked up, expecting the bright questions Fanna'd pelted him with, and met only a lightly sleeping young face. Hallow cheeks. Faint bubbling sound to the breath. Pneumonia.

And who knows how many more down here.

A deep shiver took him.

No more adrenaline, buddy. He thought to himself with a wry grimace. Get ready for the crash.

Without the running, or injuries he had means to tend, McCoy was at the end of his rope.

And this damn cavern was damn cold.

Cold, and breezy.

…

McCoy nearly slapped himself in the face. If he hadn't been so damn excited to explore when he first woke up, he might've actually noticed the friggin' breeze. Not much, but any waft of air in a cave meant airflow.

And airflow means a way out. Somewhere.

An Old West flick popped into his mind. He popped an index finger in his mouth, worked up a bit of spit, and pointed towards the ceiling.

Damn, but it works.

Wet finger, plus breeze, equals slightly colder on one side.

He followed the cold spot, of course in the opposite direction from where the light originally led him.

One cavern opened to another. No thin tunnels this time. Just great, huge rooms.

The glowing pools grew shallow and small. McCoy tugged out the tricorder again.

When he finally found the entrance to this bloody mess, he wanted to kick himself.

Water. A big, dark pool.

Briny and weird tasting, but he knew an ocean when he saw it.

They were in a cavern with an under-friggin-water entrance.

_I was staring at the ocean the entire day, and it never even occurred to me._

His luck? Jim and Spock would be directly above him, in the village, having a good freak out right about now.

Just then, everything clicked into place. The fatigue tugging at his shoulders shrugged off. The fear and uncertainty forgotten.

He ran back to the kids, shook the boy awake enough to show him how to create light with the tricorder. Told him not to press any other buttons or play with anything else in the bag. Promised he'd be right back. With help.

Even if the two could swim, the boy's lungs couldn't handle it, and whatever was effecting her was still in her system. No, better to get there on his own, and get more hands.  Stat.

So, with a comforting squeeze of the boy's shoulder, McCoy headed back for the entrance, did a couple stretches, kicked off his boots, tucked his tri-ox hypo into the elastic of his undies, and took several big breaths to oxygenate his blood.

One last big gulp of air and he dove in.

He wasn't a great swimmer, but like every Starfleet officer he had to be able to meet certain physical criteria. Rope climbing? Yeah, it'd taken a couple tries before he passed that test. Doctor's have instincts to save their finely tuned hands, not use put all their weight on them and drag about on coarse hemp. The five kilometer long jog wasn't too bad. The sprints were over quickly. The hundred K swim wasn't fun, but doable.

In a semi-dark cave, however, swimming took on whole new worlds of torture.

He swam forward, kicking and scooping at the water until his lungs began to burn.

He let out the breath of air as slowly as he could muster. His throat convulsed, trying to gag. Sickly sweet water filled his sinuses, burning. As he reached for the oxygen hypo, McCoy let out a involuntary cough; his mouth flooded.

He shoved against the rock floor, pushing upwards. Desperately flailed and dragged himself here and there, blindly groping, hoping, praying-

Air!

His head burst into a small pocket. He wretched up the water. Coughed and spit. Breathed deeply until he felt light headed.

In the dark, he couldn't see how big the pocket of air was, but his hands didn't have far to reach to find the ceiling.

He rested until his ears began to roar, administered a modest dose of tri-ox by feel, took in another deep breath, and disappeared back into the dark water.

_Idiot. Experienced spelunkers get lost like this. No light. No rope. No guide. You're gonna die in this wet hell hole, none the wiser for-_

He thrashed, desperate for the next pocket. Fingers clawed bloody in the stone.

Cold hit his fingers. He shoved his face up in the crack between two rocks. The little gap of air so small his nose barely cleared it. He had to hold as still as possible before the surface stilled enough for him to breath the couple lungfuls in.

_Getting light headed, McCoy. You're not going to last like this._

_Not like you can go back at this point, though._

_Thought the world was supposed ta shrink down to a dark tunnel of light, not get brighter all over._

His joints tightened with each paddle, grab, pull. The edges of the rock formations steadily becoming more and more defined, until he burst out into the blue velvet of the real sea.

He thrashed up to the surface with another coughing fit, interrupted by every curse word he knew and a few he didn't.

Sure as sugar, the curve of a sandy, rocky beach swept out before him.

Dawn behind him. The weak star barely warming the sky.

By the time he made it back to the village, he was almost done dripping. The shivering was only just beginning.

Someone had him wrapped up in blankets, or the closest thing these damn giant centaurs could muster, and hot water in an oddly familiar twisted cup appeared in his hands. He drank deeply, gratefully.

Father Cannaceae's angry glowering face eventually resolved, bracketed by Jim and Spock. They all had quite a bit to say. Not a bit of it good. Well, the commander didn't have much to say, other than the occasional comment about human stupidity and impulsiveness, couched in typical Vulcan verbosity.

The moment McCoy finally got the chattering of his teeth under control, he told them all he knew.

Jim commed for even more security to be brought down.

Of course he headed the rescue mission.

Spock, not surprisingly, stayed at the doctor's side, even after a pointed look.

“Guess Vulcans don't like the water much, eh Spock?”

“My adaptations make my presence more effective on land, Doctor.”

McCoy smirked and sagged back into the pile of hay he'd been tucked into. With the certainty that Jim had everything under control, and Fanna and the other kids'd be rescued in short order, the good doctor gave himself permission to fall into a deep, deep sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

“ Captain, you will join me in sickbay. It isn't up for debate. If you try to try to defy me  _ one more time _ I swear on Fanna's upper bicuspid I will certify you unfit for duty!”

“'Fanna's upper bicuspid,' Doctor? You have become more creative with your seemingly endless repertoire.”

They paced down the long corridors of the Enterprise. Every step farther away from the transporter felt like coming home, all over again.

Even the emotionless ribbing brought a certain measure of comfort.

“If you're craving a brand new insult, Mr. Spock, I will be more than happy to supply one, the moment I get a decent night's rest.”

“Ah, of course. The inflated human need for sleep, rest, and rejuvenation. You know, Captain, if we replaced some of the crew, at least the members in key positions, with more efficient species, for example Vulcans, I estimate an increased efficiency of at least twenty-seven point four eight five percent for every solar day.”

“ Right. That's it. You know what, Mr. Spock? I believe you were scratched by one of those weed eaters down on the planet. Yup, I see it right there. With the chance of infection from a wound like that, I think you're going to need a full work up. What with you're being such an  _ essential _ member of the senior staff and all.”

“And one for the Doctor. Nothing like the threat of hyposprays, eh, Spock?”

“Quite.”

“Right. Sickbay. Now. Both of you.”

McCoy pointed dramatically.

Nurse Chapel caught his attention as they walked in.

“Doctor, a moment.”

He waved his friends off towards the biobeds on the non-critical side of the bay. “Uniforms off, paper gowns on. I'll be over in a minute.”

“He was serious?”

“Apparently.”

“Damn straight I was,” he grumbled, before turning back to Chapel. “Nurse?”

“Any luck, Leonard?”

He sighed and led her into his office. “No. Far from it, in fact. Did Scotty at least give you a heads up?”

“Just sent a comm that you'd be delayed.”

“What about our patient?” No need to clarify which one.

“Stable and sleeping, when I checked half an hour ago. Uhura took care of the eggs, so you’re free to go ahead and take care of the boys.”

“Thank you, Christine.”

“Always, Leonard.”

McCoy puffed himself up a moment and headed back to deal with his annoyingly reactive Captain and simply annoying First Officer.

Spock's scratches weren't all that bad, so he got to sit and wait in his medical blue one piece while McCoy ran his scanners over Jim.

“At least you don't really have paper gowns anymore,” Jim ventured.

“It would be a waste of the tree pulp,” McCoy answered with a grumble. “And I wouldn't want to see your bare backside wiggling around here anyway. I'd be getting requests for a Section Eight from the entire crew. Actually no, all the women'd be coming down with a case of the flu, or a headache, or Andorian shingles, or some rot, and find themselves in need of coming to their good doctor for treatment. It'd be Spock's green keister that would make me order a few rubber rooms!”

“Are you implying that my bare skin would lead to insanity, Doctor?”

“I think he's saying you'd drive the girls crazy, Spock.”

“The way humans compliment one another confuses me greatly, Captain.”

“It's not a compliment, and you damn well know it, you green-blooded hobgoblin. Strip down to the waist,” McCoy grumbled, turning back to Jim. “I'm just going to wrap up your ribs for now. Not much I can do for them, past a light bone knit, unless you want some spectacularly debilitative painkillers. Guaranteed to knock you on your ass for a couple days to get those ribs healing off right.”

“No, thanks Bones. Knowing my luck, my face'd swell up. Again. Wrapping them will be fine.”

McCoy retrieved the necessary bandages while Jim peeled back the one-piece to the fabric belt. The wrap wouldn't do much for healing, other than restricting Jim's movements a bit for a few days while the bones mended. Ribs, even with modern technology, were finicky. All that moving they needed to do meant he couldn't just do a full graft, otherwise that particular bone'd get completely frozen, leaving their captain with a permanent hitch in his breath. Even with the wrap, though, knowing his Captain like he did, Jim would do something to aggravate it. McCoy tucked the fabric a little tight to remind the man to take it easy for a while.

Once he was mummified, belly button to armpits, McCoy scanned again and ran the regenerators over him.

“Hm. That should just about do it. When they get loose, come in again. Any of the staff can redo it. I'm going to adjust your meal card,” he commented while reading his tricorder again. “Dark, leafy greens for a while.”

“Salads?? Why!”

“You need additional calcium. And you could stand to lose a pound or two.”

“Meat has calcium. So does ice cream!”

“Shredded cheese and tofu,” McCoy countered. “And some chopped nuts for additional protein. No arguments.”

“See if I invite you to dinner ever again.”

McCoy smiled.  “You can always dine in here with me. I'm planning on a cobb salad myself, light on the dressing.”

“I'm going to throw up.”

McCoy grinned while he worked over the cuts and scrapes the captain'd picked up during their day.

“Alright. You're about done. Follow your meal card. If I find you trading with Scotty again, I'm putting you both on emergency rations. Spock? It's your turn.”

The Vulcan sat placidly while McCoy tended to the cuts and scrapes. The tricorder did detect trace amounts of infectious materials, which the doctor couldn't help but  _ tut tut _ over with his usual smile.

“Antibiotics for you,” McCoy declared, hypospray already charged and ready for the task.

“Thank you, Doctor McCoy,” Spock said without even a blink at the prick. “As always, your rattles and snake oil have done their trick.”

He hopped off the bed with little more ceremony, stood to the side while Jim eased down from his table, and off the two of them went. Back to their busy lives on the bridge and all that it entailed.

Parson, Chekov, Smith, and Blythe, of course, were in his bay for much longer. With Jim and Spock taken care of, McCoy went around to the surgical bay.

M'Benga bent over the young Russian with a couple of the other doctors. Two of the younger nurses hovered around Parson. From here, McCoy could see the main readouts on the screen above his biobed. All the readings looked good, considering.

“Already done with our security officer?” McCoy asked from the doorway.

“Mm. He's stable. What did you guys run into down there?”

“Centaurs, for lack of a better word. I got a few scans in. You might find them interesting.”

“It'd be nice to at least see what made these cuts.”

“Those? Scythe-shaped claws on giant, writhing masses of tentacles. These?” McCoy pointed to where the other doctors worked on Blythe, a victim of friendly fire. “Arrows the size of spears. Last stone age culture I want to deal with for a while. Do you need any help?”

“Oh no, I think we've got more hands than intestines right now. Go on and have a good night.”

McCoy made a noncommittal noise. “I've got my reports to take care of. I'll be in my office if you need me.”

Hidden in his office, McCoy set the lights to fifty percent and pulled out his dermal regenerator and a mirror. The goose egg bump, along with its accompanying headache, looked as bad as he'd guessed. A quick dose of modern medicine got the swelling down to something manageable.

He took a few blood samples, curious about the neurotoxin in those bog-creature's needles. He had a feeling it was similar to the stunning poison found in some snails back in Earth's oceans. Couldn't remember the damn name at the moment, so searching the database was a tad out of the question, since popping in keywords like  _ snail, _ _ tentacles, unconscious, _ and  _ can't remember being abducted _ meant he'd probably hit Starfleet's work-safe search parameters.

Still, his organs were having trouble processing it out. It didn't go to his lungs, like it did for the children back on that blasted planet, but his liver had seen better days. At the very least, going easy on the booze, drinking a lot of clear fluids, and watching his  _ own _ diet might help. If, after twenty-four hours or so, his blood work wasn't rebounding, he'd buckle and filter his blood mechanically.

_ Should ask Christine if the bodies Spock sent up were autopsied yet. Tired as I am, I'd like to see how one of those things works. And then there's poor Ensign Kelly.  _ His fingers hovered over the comm on his desk when Nurse Chapel came in with a tray.

“I thought you might like some coffee. And an ice pack.”

“Christine, you are a gem.”

He groaned at the press of the chemically generated cold. Not as good at real ice, but it did help.

“Would you like me to take care of your reports? I don't mind playing secretary on occasion.”

“No, no. I'll take care of it. I took too many scans to just foist them on a nu... well.”

“I understand. Let me know if you need any more coffee.”

“Thank you. Oh, before you go.” She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. “Ensign Kelly-”

“Has already been taken care of. Cause of death was the neurotoxin in that creature. It jabbed him in the carotid artery. It went straight into his brain. Death was near instantaneous.”

_ Perhaps that's why I didn't get the full effect, _ he mused.  _ Most of the dose was already gone by the time it got to me and Fanna. _

“Thank you.”

She nodded. “Doctor Youseff took care of all of his paperwork, while they were still looking for you. The creatures Spock transported up were put in stasis, so there's no rush.”

He smiled gratefully, dismissing her.

He eyed the woman as she tottered back out. Sometimes... sometimes its nice being nursed.

_ And then there's the inevitable divorce that goes along with a man letting himself be nursed by a beautiful woman. _

He sucked down half of the scalding coffee before he could taste it, and turned to start pulling data from his medical tricorder.

_ Work. Work is the best way to avoid all those complicated thoughts. _

A couple hours later, he found his mind wandering and the files half completed. Well, his regular reports half completed. The Away Mission report still sat at  _ On Stardate...  _ with a blinking cursor after it.

The remaining coffee sat cold at the corner of his desk.

_ You need to walk a bit. Get some of the lactic acid out of the muscles. _

He got up and stretched on the advice of his inner self.

_ Might as well check on the ensigns. _

He passed by Cygnus' tent to do just that. Parsons slept on calmly. McCoy looked up M'Benga's records, checked the current readings, and made note of the current readings automatically.

Chekov slept as well, but fitfully. McCoy glanced up at the read out screens and frowned at the fever. Thirty-nine degrees Celsius wasn't too high, but enough to make him worried. Some bacteria to be concerned about in those claws.

As he was contemplating which course of antibiotic would work best, a quiet, deep voice pulled his attention away.

“Doctor McCoy?”

“Yes, it's me, Cygnus. Was I not being quiet enough?”

“I have been awake for a while. There has been a significant amount of activity out there. May I ask what is going on?”

McCoy blinked a bit.

“You sound a lot clearer. Uhura must have worked a lot with you and the UT while I was planetside.”

“Perhaps,” he said, after a long pause.

“Let me finish administering some medication for Chekov here, and I'll be right in.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

McCoy made quick work about it, washed and put on the familiar surgical scrubs and respirator.

“It is good to see you, Doctor.”

“Please, call me Leonard. There isn't much point in formality between us, is there?”

“No. I suppose not.”

McCoy picked up the scanner that stayed in Cygnus' tent and took some readings.

“Are you feeling okay? You sound... very formal now. I'd hate to think Uhura turned you prim and proper in a few hours.”

“Perhaps I was worried. I haven't seen many people here, and spoken to fewer. That made any sense. My doctor disappeared without a word, missed three egg rotations, and no one would tell me what happened.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“I heard you come in with two men. One of them the ah... Mr. Spock.”

McCoy felt his smile come back. “Keep calling him 'egg stealer,' please. It's nice to hear someone else trying to get a dig in.”

“Why do you... 'dig in’ to each other so much?”

“Habit, I suppose. We share a very good friend, the captain of this vessel, and we both have to look out after him. He serves as the cold, logical side. I am the warm, caring, devoted side. It means we're often butting heads, when he asks for advice or during a stressful situation.”

“A strange friendship.”

“It works,” McCoy closed the tricorder and set it aside. “Back to your first question. We're trying to find your home planet. While you were unable to communicate, we had to extrapolate where you might have come from. Actually, Mr. Spock is the one to blame.”

“You went to my home? How did your people get so hurt?”

“No, we didn't,” McCoy responded, laying a gentle hand against a bare shoulder to ease his patient back down to the bed. “We found a planet that showed life signs along the possible trail that Mr. Spock worked out. It was not your home planet. Maybe now that you're awake, and we can talk, we could bring some starcharts in?”

Cygnus turned his gaze away for a long while.

“Why didn't you get them from the ship?”

“The computers were too damaged to retrieve anything, and the ship too hot to send engineers in to try to recover any data.”

“Did... did you find any of my shipmates?”

“No. I'm sorry, my friend, but we only found you.”

Those expressive eyes closed for a long moment, hiding any moisture that may, or may not, be building up in the corners.

“I thought... I hoped that someone else might have hidden away somewhere.”

Silence stretched between in for a time. With anyone else, it might feel uncomfortable, but they'd spent so long without a common language it felt more natural than Cygnus' suddenly eloquent sentences.

“Seven others,” Cygnus stated to McCoy's non-question. “Seven good, honorable men.”

“Can I ask what you were doing?”

His patient's head tilted a little.

“You are sworn to secrecy, yes?”

“Yes, I am. I'm interested in your wellbeing, my friend. That counts for the heart, along with the body.”

“The heart?”

“Human colloquialism. The metaphoric seat of all of our emotions.”

His eyes tightened in the way McCoy'd begun to read as his smile. “We carry our 'heart' here,” he tapped his bare nose. “Even if our doctors have determined that they are here.” A tap to his skull.

The eyes softened again, as that bare, two fingered hand fell out of sight at his side.

“The ship was […].”

“The computer doesn't know that word.”

This patient looked up, jaw working a bit before he tried several other words. “Experimental?”

“That one worked.”

A nod. “An experimental ship. New engine. New shielding. We determined that there was no way our hulls could take the speeds that the new engine could give. Theoretically give.” He sighed. “We had a failure. With the computer destroyed, we will not know what gave way first. Even if I do get back, the science academy won't listen to the word of a lowly engineer. They're bound to make another one and we're going to have the same thing happen. Or worse, they'll cut the program.”

MCCoy couldn't help but smile.  _ Of course he's an engineer. Murphy's Law. If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong. To an engineer. _

“We will get you back home. It might take a little bit, but with James T. Kirk at the helm, you can count on it. And we got plenty of external readings. When you're feeling a little better, I'll get Mr. Scott up to visit with his recordings. He'll be able to explain it to you. All that engineering crap is Greek to me.”

Cygnus' eyes tightened again. “Thank you. I would find those more distracting than the vids and games Uhura has supplied me with.

“There is...” he continued, after a long pause. “Another thing, I would like to ask. Something more private.”

“If I can answer, I will.”

“Two... of my children,” his teeth gnashed together. His mouth fighting the words that wanted to come out. “Their shells... cracked.”

McCoy nodded. “The first patch we applied didn't adhere well, but the second treatment seems to be much more effective. They will need assistance hatching, when it's time. Their shells are very thick where we worked. But they are just as healthy as the rest.”

“It eases my nose to hear that,” Cygnus said, voice quiet and eyes tight in a little smile. “I was very worried. Our people... my people... we don't have any treatment for the eggs. Not like that.”

“You don't? Whyever not?”

Cygnus' stumped wrist flicked this way and that.

“Religion. Tradition. I never even thought to question until I saw you cupping them in your hands with such... care. Until the egg hatches, we care for them as we can, but if something happens to the egg, they are dead.

“Perhaps it is easier. So many die in the egg. Most will never hatch. It is expected. Especially for the first nest. It is rare for any to hatch from a first nest.”

“You said this was your first earlier, didn't you?”

He nodded slowly.

“ We keep our eggs warm, and rotate them as you do for me. When the time comes, we moisten their surface and keep them in shade, and sing the children from their shells. But we do not interfere. Perhaps remove ones that are obviously dead, but little more. We do not attempt to even find out which  _ are _ alive.  _ We never look inside. _ ”

McCoy looked up into his hard, wide eyes.

“I am sorry, Cygnus. Without being able to ask, I did my very best to-”

That surprising strong grip took his wrist.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. Without you, without Mr. Spock, I would have no children. No chance. The reason I tell you is not to shame you, but to ask you a forbidden favor.”

“ A forbidden favor?” McCoy parroted dumbly, the concept of Farra's  _ forbidden _ far too recent in his mind.

“You saw inside the shell. Leonard, this is forbidden. The concept so alien that... I wanted to tear out your throat when I saw you speak to my child. You saw inside a private place... and I want... I need... for you to tell me what you saw.”

Tears flowed down Cygnus' sunken, raw cheeks.

McCoy wanted to pull that ruined body into a hug, comfort the emotional trauma as he soothed the physical, but... he closed a hand over the one still gripping his arm.

“For one moment, I saw a small eye peering up at me through the crack. The exact same color as your own. ...I know it's forbidden, but would you like to take a look for yourself?”

The fingers dug into the flesh of his arm rather painfully. The muscles in his jaw ground his teeth.

“I... can not.”

“Well, as your doctor, it is my duty to check on both you and your children.” He patted Cygnus' hand, gently prying the fingers away as he did. “I believe it is a bit early to rotate them, but it has a been a long day, and it would be nice to get to my own rest. If you don't object.”

“No. I do not.”

“Good. Hmm. Do you mind if I turn down the lights? I took a good hit to the head today. Quite the headache.”

McCoy turned the lights to ten percent as Cygnus attempted to get out another simple  _ no _ .

With a little smirk, the doctor dug around in the shelf under the incubator case, pulling out the box that he'd had Scotty put together for him.

An opaque cube, about six inches to a side, with a little hole cut out of the top. Inside, a bright light that generated no heat.

He'd had vague notion to candle the eggs on a regular basis, until they could get a language between them and he followed through with more invasive imaging procedures. Now he was glad he'd never seemed to find the time to work with it.

“What... is that?”

“A highly technical diagnostic device. You'll have to pardon that I erm... scan your children before you, but with sick humans on the other side of the curtain, this area offers more privacy.”

He lifted the lid on the incubator and selected the very one he'd looked into before.  _ If Cygnus is gonna throttle me, might as well be for someone I've already trespassed upon. _

Cygnus' breath came in sharp, hard bursts as McCoy lifted the egg to the pool of light in the darkness. One moment, the shell just as opaque and impenetrable as the box he'd pulled out, the next it glowed from the light beamed into it.

He turned the egg, his medical mind turning from his childlike excitement in a moment. This would be a useful diagnostic tool after all! The way the candling box worked, just like the candler he'd used as a boy, turned the egg into the sole source of illumination in the room. Empty space within the shell glowed brightly, while the body, being solid, cast a shadow. Blood vessels tangling throughout the albumen, going from the air sack to the child, glowed red; somewhere between striking a shadow on the surface of the shell and coloring the light that passed through.

All of the cracks, with their thick sutured repairs, spiderwebbed across the surface in black lines. If any new cracks formed, they would appear to be shards of light.

“It looks like the sutures are holding well,” McCoy stated, as though he were recording an audio log on his tricorder, like he often did while checking one thing or another. “No signs of infection. Blood vessel structure is still recovering from the trauma of the crack, but I believe I see new ones growing to replace damaged ones. Ah! There's a bit of movement there.”

He stopped his rotation, the cracks pointed to him, rather than his patient. He could just make out the shadow of the child repositioning inside. Cygnus got the better view.

“Someone doesn't like all this moving about, and I can't blame her. But that much motion shows a strong body. Good constitution. Best to get her back into the heat, before she gets too uncomfortable.”

McCoy tucked her back in her place and reached for the next one.

“Leonard.”

“Hmm?”

The second one he'd sutured up looked quite a bit better.

“You said, 'she.'”

“Hmm. This one is also clear of bacteria. Blood vessels are in better shape, as the membrane sack was not damaged to the same extent. Movement a little sluggish, but within expectations.”

He turned this way and that, looking for the best angle to see this one, before surreptitiously rotating said angle for his patient's benefit.

“Uhura said you were... adamant about me with your people. Not calling me he, or she.”

“I didn't want to offend you. Back you go, young man. We've got to check everyone before the incubator gets cool, you know.”

“But you said 'she'... for that one.”

“Hmm. Did I? Well, I suppose I did have to take many scans while I was making sure the radiation and heat hadn't effected them too badly. It's a shame my head hurts too much to use those scanners, but the light. You understand. And they do have that inconvenient whining sound, don't they? Your turn, little boy. You've been acting a little sluggish yourself, haven't you?”

Cygnus fell silent as McCoy worked through the remaining eggs. He didn't exactly rush the remaining, healthy eggs, but the fact that repeatedly opening and closing the lid did cool them down a little sat on his shoulders.

But it didn't stop little comments on each of them. How this little girl always seemed to sit upside down, wasn't that interesting? Or this little boy looked a bit bigger than the rest, his albumen levels lower too, he'll be a healthy eater.

He halfway expected Cygnus to reach out for one, or all of them, to touch and coo as he would on occasion, but he stayed quiet for the rest of the time. Just watching.

McCoy set the last one back down with its siblings and closed the lid tight. He turned off the candler and hid it away again.

“Don't,” came Cyngus' choked voice in the dark, as McCoy reached over him to bring the lights up again. “I'm... not ready.”

“Hm. Well, my headache is worse anyway. Must be all the lack of sleep lately. I'm not sure my head could take any more light anyway.”

“Thank you.”

McCoy awkwardly patted the back of Cygnus' hand.

“Nothing to thank me for, my friend. I was doing one of my routine scans. It is I who should apologize for having to do such a ah...”

“Invasive?”

“Invasive thing in your presence.”

“Did... did I count right? Seven girls?”

“Mmhmm. Seven. I wasn't sure at first, to be honest, but now I am. As you might have guessed, I wasn't sure of your gender until Uhura asked you. But, with...” His voice trailed off. Cygnus had his eyes covered with his hands. Well, hand and stump. Little hiccups shook his frame.

McCoy leaned over with a sigh and put his hands on Cygnus' shoulders.

“Easy... easy. It's okay. It's going to be okay. You need to take a couple deep breaths.”

Hiccups turned into a funny little coughs as an obvious attempt at holding in the sobs started spasmodic muscle activity in his new throat.

“You need to give me some slow breaths. In and out. With me, hm? If you can't even out that spasm, I'm going to have to give you a muscle relaxant and you won't be able to talk for a whole day. Maybe longer.”

Gentle hands rotated his patient onto his side. Cygnus groaned in pain, but breath came a little easier as he fought to control the uncontrollable.

“In. And out. Make that out breath as long as you can. In. Out.”

Even mid-spasm, Cygnus' breath duration was a great deal longer than McCoy's. Not much he could do about it.

“It is pretty common, among a lot of species, not just humans, that when burns covering a large area will have far reaching effects.” He kept his voice calm, even. For some, describing possible symptoms and long term effects would bring on a panic attack. McCoy had a feeling Cygnus was more the type to draw comfort from the expected. Perhaps it was all that time spent with Scotty and the other engineers.

_ If you touch a plasma coil, it's going to burn. It will burn for x amount of time based on y surface area. This time will be reduced by z factor, based on y surface area, mitigated by treatment a and b. If treatment a (at the sickbay) is not utilized, and treatment b (regimen of cleanliness and healing salves) ignored, then healing time x will be increased, meaning additional time stuck doing paper work, and not getting back into the thick of it, where said burn was caught in the first place. _

“With as much of your skin damaged and removed, thermal regulation will be difficult, if not impossible. Hormonal shifts are possible, sometimes quick and unpredictable, which can cause panic attacks, depression. Trying to bottle it all up will make the emotional healing more difficult. Or impossible. Talking about it may help, if it doesn't, I have some drugs we can try, but I'd like to save that for later. As uncomfortable as it is to feel the swings, it's a symptom that I need to keep an eye out for. If I minimize the emotional turmoil, then I won't have an accurate idea of how your body is being effected.”

“I... I understand.”

While McCoy had talked, he felt the gradual slowing of Cygnus' breath through his hands. A lump curled up in his own throat.

“It hurts.”

“Ah, I'm sorry. Let me roll you back.”

With one hand under his shoulder, and another under his hip, McCoy settled his patient back on his back.

“I am an egg now,” Cygnus all but whimpered.

“ Actually, your children are a bit tougher than you are. Technically, I can touch  _ them _ without gloves right now. Are you feeling better?”

“A bit. Thank you.”

“Is there anything I can do? Darkness? Light? Music? Silence? Company? Solitude?”

“I crave water. Real water.”

McCoy laughed. “If you are careful, very careful, you can have some. It might help your throat feel better too.”

With a complicated bit of acrobatics so he wouldn't touch anything that would need resanitizing, he hit a call button to get the attention of a night-shift nurse, who retrieved a glass of distilled water.

“Cold, bland, but sterile,” McCoy said when he brought the glass back.

With an arm around Cygnus' shoulders to lift him up, he offered the water, expecting that strong hand to lift the glass up to his lipless mouth to pour in.

Instead, a long tongue darted in and out of that snout, dipping into the glass like a dog with a jar of peanut butter.

“More, please.”

“Nurse?”

Another glass appeared.

“Slower, this time, hm? If you aspirate, I'm going to have to perform a tracheotomy.”

This glass went down at a saner pace.

“Thank you.”

“No more for now, I'm sorry to say. Let's see how your system handles this. You've been on intravenous fluids and sustenance for two weeks now.”

“You sound like the egg stealer.”

“I- hm. You're right. Sorry.”

Cygnus sighed and relaxed onto the padding of the biobed.

“Seven girls.”

_ And right back to what caused the freak out in the first place.  _ “ Is that good, or bad?”

“I will count myself blessed if I get to raise one daughter in my lifetime.”

McCoy felt an eyebrow lift up.  _ That raises a lot of questions. _

“ Out of so many?”  _ Almost half-and-half, and he might not raise any? _

“For every five males that hatch out of the egg, one female does.”

“Why is that?”

“I am not a doctor. I just know that is how it is.”

“So... there are five adult men to every woman?”

Cygnus took a moment to think about it. “Closer to ten, I think. I have not thought about it. But I am an engineer. It is a dangerous caste, so there are not many women who work in our sector. None in my department.”

“Who was your princess, then? And why did you bring your eggs with you on an experimental flight?”

“She was... she is a...” He trailed off a moment, then heaved a sigh.

“If it's too painful, you don't have to tell me. I'm damn curious, I'm man enough to admit that, but its not medically necessary that I know.”

“It would be nice to talk about her.” But, instead he clammed up again.

“ We've covered a lot tonight, and I've had a long day. How about we pick up again tomorrow? Or the next day. We have plenty enough to talk about, now that we  _ can  _ talk.”

“Thank you, Leonard. You are a good friend.”

McCoy gave him a gentle pat on the back of his hand.

“Do you want the lights up? All the way off?”

“They are fine. Good night.”

“Good night.”

McCoy slipped out, kicked off all the layers of scrubs, and headed for the mess hall for a quick meal before crashing.

 


	19. Chapter 19

“ _Kirk to McCoy._ ”

“Mmm.”

“ _Captain Kirk to CMO McCoy._ ”

“Guh.”

“ _Bones!_ ”

McCoy rolled off of his bed and flicked the intercom switch.

“Yeah.”

“ _Wow Bones, you must be tired._ ”

“You take a blow to the head and try to be all bright-eyed and bushy tailed in the morning.”

“ _Um. I did Bones._ ”

“Right. Forgot. What'dya want?”

“ _Away mission debriefing? We're just waiting for our Chief Medical Officer._ ”

“Conference room. Right. Give me five.”

He flicked off the comm unit, gave the bed one last longing look, and headed for the sonic shower. _I should have made it fifteen._

Fresh uniform, data PADDs in hand, he made it way up to the conference room, passing by several amused faces in gold and red along the way.

“-Abject failure.”

McCoy blinked up at Scotty's strange declaration.

“What was an abject failure?”

“I believe he was suggesting our away mission, Doctor,” Spock declared in his usual, bland way. “We failed to find Cygnus' home planet. We lost Ensign Parson. We have contaminated a society on the edge of their bronze age. Ensign Kelly was killed while failing to protect you from abduction. Ensigns Chekov, Smith, and Blythe were injured in the ensuing conflict, which you _slept through,_ in the process of retrieving the injured adolescents from their captors, and several natives from both sides of the conflict were injured or killed. Now, this civilization believes in demons, deities, magic, and we provided conclusive proof. For example, your insistence on curing every child, not only of the injuries sustained while captivity, but also clearing their lungs of pneumonia and supplying them with antibiotics to insure that there will be no recurrence in the foreseeable future. The Prime Directive has been ignored, thanks to the use of communicators, phasers, medical equipment, and transporters within their sight. First contact could hardly have gone any worse, Doctor McCoy.”

“Hmph. Well, on my end, Parson will be up and ready for duty in a couple days. Chekov in two weeks, if that fever picks up the way it looks like its going to. Smith should have the night off, but he's basically mended. And Blythe is on bed rest until after his next corrective surgery, then light duty 'til I give the all clear.

“While the first contact might not have gone over well, I've got some interesting readings on those centaurs down there and more than a few doctor's volunteering to get their hands on those bog monsters. I'll forward the results on to the Interstellar Sciences Academy. I've got some data that will keep a few of my colleagues busy for years to come.

“If I don't miss my guess, someone's going to be setting up covert observatories to watch how they develop.”

“Lieutenant Uhura reported last night that she's made significant progress on communication with Cygnus.”

“Yes, she has, Jim. The UT still has gaps here and there, but she's done a fine job.”

“Excellent! Well, Mr. Spock, it seems that a joint effort between Uhura and our good Doctor has nullified your search pattern. Do you think you can get some starcharts ready? Maybe a quick look and we'll be right on course.”

McCoy smiled a bit. “I was thinking the exact same thing.”

“I will prepare the charts. It may take a couple hours to map the nearby systems accurately, since we have not explored this region of space yet.”

“Perfect. Now that we can talk like civilized people, I think it's time I introduce myself.”

“Jim-”

“It has been two weeks, after all. And you've usurped my entire ship to take care of the man, Bones. I should have some say in it.”

“Jim, I'm not sure,” McCoy started, then stopped himself at the sight of his captain's wide grin. “Cygnus isn't recovered. You're welcome to speak to my patient, but with the extensive amount of damage, you can't place any undue stress on him. Do you hear me, Captain?”

“Yes, yes. I'll be my usual diplomatic self. Scotty, ship reports please.”

They continued around the table. Each taking their own turn, until all that needed to be said, on the record that is, had been said.

To be honest, all McCoy remembered was being woken up from a lovely dream about this Orion dancing girl from a... educational vid... by shouts and blood as the injured were dragged into Father Cannaceae's hut. Without thinking, he'd snatched the comm from one of the downed security personnel and ordered emergency medical equipment and staff to be transported down immediately.

Hearing the other side of the story was an entirely different experience. Jim diving down into the cave before everyone got to his side, the mad search for the underwater entrance. How the bog-creatures downed a few crew before someone realized that the stun setting was just as effective on them as the centaurs: read, not. The lengthy hand-to-hand combat. The bright children, weak as they were from malnutrition and pneumonia, realizing their captors were occupied, freeing those that couldn't get up on their own. The boy McCoy found even dragging an injured lieutenant from the fray.

The battle above ground, he'd seen for himself. At least the tail end. Glad he hadn't been there to witness the living, writhing masses as they pulled out of the seawater. The pale, nauseated faces of his coworkers more than enough for him. The huge, muscled bodies of the warriors loosening arrows, seemingly without effect. Stone axes only shaving off a few flailing tendrils at a go. Father Cannaceae's sweat-gleaming hulk thundering to his aid just as one of those scythes swung for McCoy's head. Those impressive tusks buried, coated, in still-moving gore.

He shivered as Jim described that bit, since he'd shot that creature moments too late to save the doctor. If Fanna hadn't been so open, hadn't convinced her father they were _good demons_ , he might very well be on the cold slab with Kelly.

McCoy well knew the flack awaiting for him, once the official reports finally made it back home, the Board had time to chew it over, spit out a response, and for it to get back. He'd be lucky if they just tossed a bucket of sanctions on his record. But, his conscious stood clear. Even if they took his post away from him, he got Fanna and her friends free, and healed them of the physical wounds that their captors imposed on them. The mental distress... that's a different matter, of course.

But, thanks to a little impromptu cave in, a direct result of Spock's genius and a well-aimed phaser blast from the Enterprise herself, it'd be a _long_ time before the subterranean dwellers of the newly classified Zeta Eta Theta One-Niner found their way into Fanna's village again. If ever. And now that everyone _knows_ about them, well. He's a doctor, not a war strategist, but McCoy guessed Father Cannaceae had a good mind for that kind of forethought.

“Think I'm missing out on somethin',” McCoy interrupted, when folks seemed interested on getting onto ships reports. “How the hell did Pavel get a spear in the side?”

“Arrow.”

“Whatever. You get a nearly four-foot long length of wood, tipped in stone, in your side – right near where your misshapen green-blooded heart'd be if you had one – and _then_ you'd have the right to quibble over what to call it.”

Spock flicked through a few digital files, easily ignoring the usual barbs. “It seems someone pulled him out of the pit at some point during the confrontation. We will have to ask him directly when he awakens, but one of the natives was spouting some nonsense about the bravery of the day demons and standing guard over him. One might surmise he was of assistance.”

McCoy grunted. Not very specific, but it'd have to do until the ensign woke up and reported in.

After a couple hours of the usual hoop-jumping, the meeting finally came to a close. McCoy stood up with a groan of stiffness. _Should have gotten some coffee before coming in. And a dose of anti-inflammatory._

“Well, Bones, let's head out.”

“Jim?”

“To sickbay? To meet Cygnus?”

“Now?”

“Well if you need to reschedule me-”

“No, no I don't.”

“I believe Doctor McCoy is exhibiting symptoms of a hangover,” Spock said as he tapped his record tapes into a neat pile.

“I am not. Come on. Sooner I can get this done, sooner I can get real work done.”

Spock's eyebrow went up at that, but he didn't say anything.

“Uhura? Would you join us? Just in case Cygnus comes up with something the UT doesn't have a word for again?”

“Of course, Leonard. Let me drop off these records and I'll meet you boys in sickbay.”

“Ready, _Leonard_?”

“Hypospray.” McCoy replied in a sing-song voice. “And your meal card. Piss me off, and you'll be on-”

“Yeah, yeah, emergency rations.  Or worse.  Like _salads._ ”

He sighed pinched his nose between two fingers.

“No, wait, I need to change Cygnus' wraps. They hadn't been done while we were gone.”

“Can’t wait until after?”

“You know, fine. That'll keep you guys at a shorter timeline anyway. Come on.”

McCoy pounded down to the sickbay, his headache getting worse with every step.

“Clean up and and get scrubs on,” McCoy ordered before doing the same.

“You are early.”

Inside the sanitary tented area, Cygnus had been propped into a good forty-five degree angle, the PADD lit up on his stomach. McCoy could just make out a paused video game, one of the ones Uhura snagged from Chekov when she'd first programmed it. Something about forming long chains of patterned colors.

“Early?” He asked.

“Yes. Unless you intend to return to the four-hour rotations.”

“Oh, no. Not unless it's needed. Regular duties called, for once. My captain would like a word with you.”

“I wondered when your superior officer would come.”

“Do you feel up to speaking with him? The egg stealer is getting scrubbed up as well.”

“And Uhura?”

McCoy smiled. “She's coming. I figured I'd invite for her, in case we needed her assistance with the translator.”

Cygnus' eyes closed a long moment. “I am prepared. You may invite them in.”

“Do you mind if I do my regular morning scans while they speak with you? And maybe the morning egg rotation, if discussions last that long? I will make sure they can not see your scans.”

“No, please. I welcome the distraction from the routine.”

“Hear that, Captain?”

“Yes, I did. Give me a minute. Ms. Chapel is just helping me with my respirator.”

It took a few minutes more for both men to enter. In the distance, he could hear Uhura chatting with Chapel herself.

“Cygnus, this is Captain James Tiberius Kirk. Jim, this is Cygnus. You already know Mr. Spock.”

“Egg Stealer,” Cygnus greeted, with a nod of his head. Spock nodded a greeting in return.

“'Egg Stealer?'” Jim asked.

“Don't worry about it,” McCoy deferred. “Remember what I said about tiring my patient out. I'm going to keep the tricorder going the whole time. And one eye on the biobed readouts too. If I see one hint of stress, I'm kicking you out.”

“Touché, touché. It is ah... good to meet you, Cygnus. I've heard a lot of good things.”

McCoy picked up his tricorder and started his regular morning scans.

Jim acted the epitome of experience and professionalism. Only a close friend, a good doctor, or both, would notice how his skin paled around the eyes. Or the constant swallowing. Or how his eyes never seemed to meet those of his conversational partner. His gaze flicked here and there, not able to settle on any part of his patient without finding something else bare. Uncomfortable. Horrific.

McCoy wished he'd thought to suggest that Spock act as intermediary. At least Vulcan control over emotionalism would mask any visceral reaction he might have.

The subtle cues McCoy had begun to look for in his patient screamed just as loudly.

“Good things?” Cygnus repeated, his fingers gripping on a bit of unrolled gauze, his attention on the incubator.

“Well, McCoy has been giving his regular reports and-”

“And I haven't broken your privacy,” McCoy piped in. “But Jim has been curious how you were doing. I have given basic reports on your wellbeing, and passing along basic information about your species that I've been able to figure out. Mostly so that Mr. Spock would have a better idea of what to look for on deep space scans.”

“Oh.” He sagged in on himself.

“Yes, of course. Bones is the best doctor I know of. You couldn't ask for better.”

“Bones? This is a strange name for him. Is it like how he insults the egg stealer constantly?”

Jim grinned. “Something like that. On note of the egg stealer, we were just talking about taking some images from our latest deep space scans to update our starcharts, and perhaps bring them to you?”

Cygnus nodded. “Leonard suggested this as well. I will try, but looking out into space was never my duty. I am not sure I would recognize my star system from any other in this region of space.”

McCoy blinked over at his patient, surprised.

“What do you mean, it wasn't your duty?”

“I told you, Leonard. I was an engineer. My task was to repair and maintain the ship. I can repair our imagers, that's easy enough, but other than calibrations, I haven't looked through them.”

“Fascinating. Are you implying that your tasks were so specialized you had no interest in any other field?”

“I might be curious,” his voice went quiet. “But duty comes first.”

Uhura pushed into the tented area, her own PADD tucked under one arm.

“Sorry for the wait, boys.” She took her place on the stool at Cygnus' shoulder. She plucked up his PADD, saving and closing the paused game without a second thought. “Have you continued reading the files I supplied, Cyg? I know I handed you quite a bit.”

“I've gotten through some of it,” he replied as she scanned whatever results her programming gave her. “And highlighted the parts that failed to translate, as you suggested.”

“Good. We can take a look at them once the others have finished their questions. Alright, Captain, how can I help?”

Jim smiled down at her. “I guess you and McCoy are referees right now.”

“What does that word mean?” Cygnus asked.

“It means I make sure to pause the conversation, if or when its needed, to make sure we're all on the same page. I'm guessing McCoy is doing the same, but to make sure we don't tire you out too much.”

“Ah, then proceed Captain James Tiberius Kirk.”

“Captain Kirk will do just fine, thank you Cygnus. So, I guess, let's start at the beginning. What brings you to this part of space? What happened to your ship? How many crew were aboard her? How long was your mission? Was it exploratory, or did you have a set destination? Was... your wife on the ship? Why did you bring them with you anyway?” The questions flowed from Jim's mouth, ending with a careless gesture towards the incubator; they'd been building up in the young captain's mind.

Cygnus passed a significant look over at his doctor.

“Jim will understand if there are a couple things you can't answer because you need to keep certain classified things classified. We also have to obfuscate on occasion, when the situation merits.”

Cygnus thought for a moment. “Perhaps then, I should do as you suggest, and start at the beginning. I am only used to giving my regular reports to my superiors, sir, so you'll forgive me if I am... rusty at story telling. Leonard? Could I have a glass of water, or two, before I begin? I am not used to speaking this much.”

“Of course.”

McCoy called past the curtains for the water. He propped his patient up long enough for Cygnus to lap up the liquid. This time he didn't have to remind the man to keep it slow. When the second glass appeared, his patient waved it off. McCoy set it on the side table, expecting to need it later.


	20. Cygnus' Story

Cygnus worked with the diligence of years of practice. An engine to be proud of. The ship, a shell worthy of holding her.

_He'd been recruited to the ground team ten cycles earlier. Like many others from his district, he had been plucked from one of the most prestigious universities._

_At first it had been difficult talking with the others. Dialects strange. Body mannerisms counterproductive; centuries of adaptation to local environments had caused each nation to look like a separate species, rather than distant cousins of the same._

_But now, they worked like a well lubricated piece of machinery. Men from Eule working on user interfaces. The clever men from Raaf spinning spool after spool of fine filament to insure that all the components met perfectly. Habicht men clarified metal, ceramic, glass. Aquila dealt with the theoretical equations, the mind behind them all to focus the intent into a single purpose. Familiar Peir men worked with him, agile fingers dealing with all of the complicated components that the others couldn't seem to conceptualize. Making physical the theory that Aquila proposed._

_A joint effort. A conceptual show of force. A banner to show that all of the people could work together towards a single, amazing task._

_A space ship. Not the planet-hoppers that Aquila possessed, or the skyskimmer that Raaf and Pier used to travel in ways their bodies no longer could. A real_ space _ship. With the intent to leave their star system._

_They'd dealt with aliens before. Just passing traders. Common knowledge, at least on this isolated island. Tantalizing voices in the dark. All knew that more awaited them. A joint effort a century old between Habicht and Aquila even made two moons, and another planet in their system, livable._

_But_ this _, the_ Dart. _This was made for far greater things. To explore. To meet aliens, rather than passively wait for others to come to them._

_So many hopes, dreams, rested on this one little ship._

_She was little. Eight souls to be picked to man her. One male from each tribe, with an extra two from Peir to insure the engine, the computers, everything, would continue to work once they had traveled past the safety of their atmosphere. And another Aquila too. While the rest of the crew had yet to be assigned, two Aquila stated early on that they were to be the pilots, and had been trained and treated as such. Cygnus did not doubt or question the assignment; not his place to spend time worrying over that aspect of their mission. If they were a tad frightening, or threatening, in their manner, so be it. The lowly engineers rarely saw their like anyway._

_Rumor had it the Aquila Queen wanted more from her tribe on ship, but she couldn't bargain for it. The sole reason the other tribes allowed the second was to insure that if anything happened to the pilot, the other would be on hand to perform the calculation needed to control the ship, perform the trajectories needed to land on other planets, generate the equations to keep the engines in balance._

_So, basically, everything of “any real importance.”_

_Ten years of preparation. Waiting, hoping. Occasionally one of the construction team would be traded out. Very rare. Most fought to the bone to keep themselves in the program._

_Hundreds in all. So many working in symphony to complete one glorious, secret task._

_The last year had been the most excruciating. No one had known who would be going, who would be staying. The ground crew buzzed with rumor, speculation, needless what-ifs._

_Cygnus had been one of the few whom assumed he would not be going. Kept his head down. Performed his work to the best of his abilities. Read and researched what civilian populations were accomplishing with their power cells, reservoirs, converters. Poured over what little data they'd gleaned from the few alien visitors the Queens provided. Suggesting and implementing every advantage he found to aid them in their task. Every cubit of space he shrank the engine gave that much more space for food stores, science labs, living quarters. Efficiency, effectiveness. His personal goals to push the envelope as far as feasible, while ensuring he kept to all safety regulations. Even suggesting regulations on occasion, based on new data from a Raaf study here, or a Habicht factory accident there._

_Celebrations filled the hangar bay for a week when the_ Dart _had been completed. Engines built. Shielding installed. Living quarters prepared and food stores packed._

_Celebrations broken by the sight of a cluster of females stepping out onto a prepared stage. Silence caught like the plague. Song and dance stopped within a moment._

_Not just females. Queens. Leaders of each people._

_Cygnus' eyes of course went to the Peir queen first. His people elected their Queen, while others, like the Eule and Habicht, fell back to older traditions of hierarchical matriarchal rule._

_Of course, even among the Peir, females hold the right to vote while the men must petition their wishes to lower governmental heads._

_He'd never seen such a beautiful woman before. Large, and stately. Her eyes the flashing red of sunset. Her neck long and thin. Her snowy white feathers speckled with large red gemstones; the metal holding them worked to filaments so fine one could not see them from any reasonable distance, giving the effect of large drops of blood dotting those pristine feathers. Her dress was simple, compared to that of the others. The embroidery trimming her throat and wrists, gold and red on white woven fabric. Impeccably made, elegant in its simplicity._

_The Queen from Eule clothed herself in a thick fur of some kind, fluffing out her silhouette to appear as large as her companions. The Habicht Queen decorated her body in priceless painted silks. Up close, the panels told all sorts of intricate stories. From where Cygnus stood, glass of wine hanging slack and forgotten in his hand, he made out only a gaudy colorful blur. Raaf people always seemed to dress in black, and their representative stayed true to tradition, in that sense. Millions of black stones, long thin shards of some glossy black stone Cygnus couldn't identify, rippled in waves around her willowy form. The ruddy feathers of the Aquila queen had been accentuated with some artificial pigmentation. The tips of each trimmed in white. Her dress, white and form fitting, drew his eye in a way that forced him to compare the Aquila with his own queen._

_Much to her disfavor, of course._

“ _We have come to inspect what has been wrought,” one sung out. Cheers erupted. Woots and whistles. Hands reached up to support them down._

 _Cygnus followed with the tide as the queens and their entourages were swept up and led towards where the_ Dart _rested on her fine, stalky legs. A multitude of voices explaining this, or that. Pointing out a bit of craftsmanship here, how the ceramics had been placed there. The subtle decoration of the troweling, the grace of her body._

_Everyone excited over the collected masterpiece. The honor of visiting dignitaries. The heady sight of beautiful women after a decade without._

_Even from his place farther back, their taller bodies stuck out from the crowd; all but the Eule's ruler taller than the flock of men by a head or more._

“ _The_ Dart _sits strangely,” a soft voice compelled him to turn around. “All the illustrations I've been shown were of it sitting upright.”_

“ _She is sitting at an angle right now so that we can service her on the ground. The past month has been comprised of detail work, living quarters and computer updates. While the upright position is her initial take off posture, it is difficult to reach all of her systems while she's in that orientation, because her interior was designed for the null-gravity in space. In fact, most of our work the past year, she's been tilted at one angle or another, to facilitate systems checks. She'll need to be able to land on any angle, if there's an emergency, after all. We've even retrofitter her with secondary wings, stowed away in those compartments, to support a more gradual take off, if the_ Dart _ends up landing on a high-gravity planet.”_

“ _You speak Aquila,” the woman said to him, surprise lightening the song of her voice._

_Cygnus bowed a little. “We've all become pretty comfortable with each others dialects over the years.”_

_Pale orange eyes, typical of that northern tribe, studied him, tilted up just a little in a subtle smile._

“ _Handsome, intelligent, and polite. Would you care to be my guide for the evening?”_

“ _I am honored.”_

_He offered his elbow the way he knew their people preferred. She slipped her hand into the crook, her eyes smiling a bit more before she looked ahead. He guided her through the throng._

_She must have fallen quite far behind to request the assistance of a Pier, but... wasn't that the goal of this project? To foster not just a temporary truce, but ongoing peace between their people?_

_Petite fingers dug into the delicate skin between his feathers, sending tingles up his spine._

_Touch was uncommon in the general population, but here, with small working quarters and a close group of coworkers, they'd all become quite used to it thanks to necessity... but... that touch... was unlike any he felt before. Not the careless graze of fingers as tools passed from hand to hand. Or the brush of shoulders, where the thick buffer of feathers meant that each only felt the pressure of another close by. This was... quite intimate._

_A jostle from one of his coworkers pressed the Aquila against his side. Her fingers clung all the harder to him._

_Cygnus glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Her jaw tight. Eyes wide and staring straight ahead._

“ _Do we... need to catch up with your people faster?” He asked, attempting to be diplomatic._

“ _Yes. Please.”_

_He nodded and started pushing through the crowd, rather than following along with the flock. A kind word, a gentle shove of a friend here or there. The woman pressed herself against him as they passed one large cluster or another, until they reached the tight knot of people around the assembled royalty._

“ _There are a lot of people,” Cygnus murmured just loud enough for her to hear. “Are you ready to press in, or do you need to rest first?”_

“ _The longer I wait, the worse it will be,” she whispered in return, not even looking at him._

Agoraphobia _. With hundreds of brilliant minds working together in close quarters that their people had not evolved for, a disproportionate percentage of the people who worked with him suffered from it. Unlikely that any of those coworkers would be in this building right now, of course. Many chose to celebrate the completion of the_ Dart _in private, or in small groups._

_A person in the royal entourage, of course, had no such choice._

_Cygnus pried her fingers from his elbow, letting her latch onto the opposite hand. He curled a protective arm around her back._

“ _No one will sneak up behind you,” he said quietly. “Just keep your eyes ahead.”_

“ _What do you think I've been doing?”_

_He couldn't help but smile._

“ _Pardon us. We need to catch up,” he said to the crowd in general. It took a bit more work to push through now. As they got closer and closer to the royal personages, the press of bodies closed in on them. So tight that even Cygnus felt himself becoming uncomfortable._

_A couple of the attendants caught sight of them among the rest and encouraged some of the more ardent engineers to make a path for them._

_The weight of her sagged against his arms as they made the last few steps._

“ _Numididae,” one of them whispered, reaching for her hands._

“ _I am safe,” she replied automatically._

“ _We will take her from here,” the other male attendant asserted._

“ _Of course,” Cygnus acquiesced._

“ _No.” Those delicate hands, ones that had never seen a moment of work their entire lives, tightened on him with as much force as they could muster; minute vibrations of her muscles trembled their joined hands._

_The two Aquila men exchanged glances._

_Cygnus raised his head, puffing his chest out to increase his silhouette. He had no right to challenge a royal attendant, regardless of nation, but the desperate clutch on his hand grounded him to the duty. He'd remain at her back if she wished it._

“ _We will be inspecting the interior of the ship soon enough,” Cygnus offered. “It is quite small, so not many will be able to fit in at a time. I am honored to show you where my team has been working.”_

“ _Yes. I had wanted an expert in his division to explain the mechanics of...”_

“ _Interflux plasma mix engines, practice and theory.”_

“ _To me.”_

“ _As you wish, Numididae.”_

_The pair bowed as low as the close press of bodies allowed, then separated so that Cygnus could lead her farther into the cluster of dignitaries._

_She took a deep breath, attempting to relax. Her eyes regained that half-lidded look that the higher ranks pulled when they did not want to show their expression. Chin up, shoulders back._

_If it weren't for the tight grip on his hand, Cygnus might very well believe it._

_This close to the head of the procession, he made out one word in three of the discussion as it flickered between department heads. An expert here or there pipping in as needed to clarify details. No one asked a question, of course, nor was it expected. Royalty_ knew _everything. At least, they did in the regions where royalty still passed through blood. Courtesy caused the scientists to supply information in a continuous burble; if one person thought that a term_ might _be confusing, or need explanation, they supplied it._

_Cygnus glanced over at his new companion more frequently now than was strictly proper._

Numididae _. An interesting name._

_And truthfully... she was a bit of a beauty._

_He wasn't certain about the feather tinting she had done. Much like her Queen, the ruddy color had been leached from the edges of many of her feathers. Some had been bleached completely, creating a little speckled pattern of white in the delicate feathers around her eyes, the gentle curve of her shoulders. She wore no royal jewels or embossed fabric, just a simple dress woven of expensive red silks. The layers of patterned silks had been cut in such a way as to build up a stiff collar around her neck, leave her shoulders and arms bare, and wrap in a concealing manner around her body, all the way to the floor. Showing off her wealth by volume of fabric, rather than in gaudy baubles._

_He found he rather liked the look._

_Soon enough, small groups were settled to go into the ship itself. The Queens, and higher ranking scientist, went first of course, then their consorts, and so on down the line._

“ _Speak to me, while we wait,” Numididae ordered in a small voice. Cygnus nodded, his mind grasping for whatever he might talk with such a lady about._

“ _The_ Dart _is a magnificent ship,” he ventured. She didn't comment one way or another, so he continued. “I'm not sure if you know, but she's the third ship we've built. The first one never made it past our atmosphere. We had been basing plans on Peir skyskimmers, with their wide wingspan and flat bodies at first. The consensus had been to follow that type of design, because we do not know what kind of planets the_ Dart _will be landing on. Surely larger wings would be safer, yes? More surface area for catching the winds. More surface for warming the solar paneling as well. Well, with the skyskimmers serving as our test vehicles, we went straight to producing a larger version._ Cloud _, that was the first ship. She had three pilots. One Raaf and two Peir. One for the engines, one for each wing._

“ _Suborbital tests were positive, but each time_ Cloud _skimmed the surface of our atmosphere, she would stall right out. Engines failed. She'd hop a few times, each touch of her native air seemed to give her a short breath of life, she'd jump for another few hundred yards, and then she'd give up. Those large wings weren't designed for spaceflight. But her long, light body makes her an excellent glider. The radio had been piped throughout the entire complex that first flight. Imagine the sound of a hundred men all holding their breath as one. The roar of engines, of pilots spitting out trajectory, arguing with equipment_ we _made, and then_ Pfft! _Nothing.”_

“ _Nothing?”_

_Cygnus nodded._

“ _When_ Cloud's _engines stalled, there was nothing to make noise. No power to any instruments. The radio had been set up with a separate battery system, by chance more than design, but there was nothing to hear. Other than the Raaf pilot cursing, of course.” Cygnus grinned. “That was the only way we knew that they were still alive. A full minute_ Cloud _floated among her namesakes. We had built her too well for a little engine failure to down her. A full minute, however, until the idiot pilots stopped panicking and began the restart of her engines. She waited for them, patient as a mother grousue hen, and even at half power they glided home without a single life lost.”_

“ _You speak as though they are women you know.”_

_Cygnus coughed a little in embarrassment._

“ _We have no women here,”_ Numididae _, he ached to say her name, but she had not introduced herself with her spoken name, so it would be the height of impropriety to use it. “So, the ships are our wives. Our daughters. We dote and raise and protect them, so that they might protect us when we are ready._

“ _There is a joke going around now,” he explained in a quiet whisper, so that the heads of state around them couldn't hear. “_ Cloud _was our first mate, a Peir bitch who traveled where she wished._ Talon _, our second mate, who had more excitement in her nose than any of us could handle, too small and agile for her own good.”_

“ _An Eule mate, then?”_

 _Cygnus nodded at her understanding. “Any who flew in her became motion sick at the slightest provocation. None but Eule stomachs could handle those tight turns and spins_ Talon _performed to get out of our atmosphere.”_

“ _What kind of woman is_ Dart _then?”_

“ _Aquila,” Cygnus replied, his nares heating with embarrassment. “A bit larger, more straightforward, intelligent. If any has the chance to make it,_ Dart _will.”_

“ _You are quite certain.”_

“ _We have put our all into it. I am not certain where we will go from here, if she doesn't.”_

“ _You have used Aquila take-off protocols.”_

_He nodded, impressed she knew about such things. “The upright takeoff is more efficient. At least it is in small scale. It requires more upward force, pound for pound, but the duration of takeoff will be more than halved. As I mentioned earlier, she has retractable wings, so that a more traditional take off should also be possible. There will be extensive testing of both, before the crew is chosen for the first out-of-orbit test.”_

“ _You know this for certain?”_

_Again, his nares flooded with heat. He rubbed the side of his nose in embarrassment. “No, not precisely. That is what we have been told. But the ship has been packed as though she were ready for a full flight. We want to make sure she can take the strain of the additional weight of all the coolants and supplies. If she can not leave the ground with all of her mass, there is no point in continuing without additional tweaking to her engines.”_

“ _Thank you.”_

“ _Hmm?”_

“ _I believe it is our turn.”_

 _A handful of lower dignitaries were making their way down the long staircase from the belly of the_ Dart _. The rest had already been in and out. The Queens and consorts already moving on to the next thing the department heads wanted to show off._

“ _Do you want me to go up first?” Cygnus asked._

_He got a sidelong glare. “The strength of the ladder has been thoroughly proven.”_

_For all of her bravado, he still walked her up to the metal rungs, and her hand still held his in a vice-strong grip._

“ _You're going to have to let go, if you want to go up.”_

_She looked away, releasing him and turning to go up into the ship._

_Cygnus waited until she climbed up into the hatch before clambering up himself._

“ _The_ Dart _has several entry points,” Cygnus began explaining, as Numididae looked about her. “We use this one most because we've been using this room, the cargo bay, as a staging area. A lot of the components we need are too big to bring in, so we break them into little pieces and reassemble them here before installing them in other parts of the ship.”_

_A couple others gathered in the bay, listening to Cygnus with rapt attention. Including the two male attendants. He waited until the room filled with the rest of the dignitaries. Luckily for him, a couple of his superiors came up as well._

“ _The cargo bay has a capacity of six thousand, nine hundred and thirty cubits,” the next department head picked up where Cygnus left off, once enough were in the room.  His voice high and nasal with his nervousness. “While the_ Dart _is far from a cargo vessel, it is quite possible, depending on the length of the journey and how many planets are explored before returning home, that the scientists aboard may have a very large quantity of samples. Because space is very limited, we have restricted analytical equipment to the bare essentials, which you see in the next room.”_

_Cygnus stepped aside so that the group could continue on. A little thrill of pleasure warmed his nose as Numididae remained at his side._

“ _You may show me what you have worked on.”_

“ _It would be my pleasure, but I will warn you, there isn't much to look at.”_

_He took her to the engines, explaining this or that while they traveled. Occasionally he would have to climb up one section or another, since the floor slanted at forty-five degrees, and offer a hand to pull her up._

“ _It is disconcerting to have the floors like this,” she grumbled after the third time._

“ _Imagine what it's like when she's belly up and you're walking on the ceiling. This might seem uncomfortable, but we've all been using every surface of her as a floor, at one time or another. Here, one more ledge and we'll be in the engines.”_

_Cygnus lifted her up through the hand-span wide safety seal door that separated the engines from the rest of the ship.  Numididae tottered a moment on the angled surface, then carefully straightened her long skirts before looking around._

“ _These engines are designed to remain perpetually powered,” Cygnus supplied, when he noticed the tilt of her head. “That's the hum you hear. She's as 'powered down' as she can be right now. Sleeping and dreaming away.”_

“ _It is designed this way, to avoid the issues that the_ Cloud _had,” Numididae stated, in as close to a question as tradition allowed._

“ _Just so. Instead of three minutes to reboot the engine,_ Dart _can't be turned off. At most, we might need a couple seconds to reinitialize the thrusters, half a minute for the shields.”_

“ _An interesting safety measure.”_

_Cygnus smiled at the implied compliment._

“ _The combined efforts of thirty men to come up with that particular design.”_

“ _Very few people on this island take credit for anything.”_

“ _Hundreds of men, hundreds of hands in the task. I can't think of any piece that has been touched by only one of us.”_

_She chuckled a little bit and wandered over to one of the containment cells._

“ _There is a pleasant... vibration.”_

_Cygnus nodded and went over to it himself. “Yes, there is. Part of the thermal reaction. Many a night I soothed a sore back with it. Here, ah, rotate and lean back against it.”_

_He'd almost reached out to move her into his favorite position on the ship before catching himself. She eyed him suspiciously, but did as he suggested._

_For a moment, her eyes opened in surprise, then the lids dropped again. He knew the sensation well. Radiant heat and a low frequency vibration. Putting one's skull against it hurt, as the vibrations turned to a particularly agonizing sound frequency as it reverberated around the inner ear, but for the back and shoulders, it felt quite wonderful._

“ _Very... relaxing.”_

_Cygnus smiled._

“ _The vibration is at a different hertz when the_ Dart _is awake and her engines at full, but while she's asleep here on the ground, it is quite soothing. I hope it will be the same when she is at rest in space.”_

“ _I'm certain the crew would appreciate it if it was.”_

_A certain silence stretched in between them. The hum of the sleeping engine, and the occasional echo of the others in the ship did little to disturb it._

“ _Thank you, again. You seem very perceptive. For an engineer.”_

“ _One might take that for an insult,” he smiled to show he didn't. “Is there anything else here you would like for me to speak about?”_

“ _No. I wish to see the bridge.”_

“ _As you wish.”_

_Cygnus offered his elbow again. A little smirk played on her lovely face before she accepted._

_He gave a vague tour of the ship as they passed through private quarters, hydroponics, the labs, and so on. Just like the engines, he'd had his hands on many pieces, here and there, but also hastened to explain that if she wished a further detailed report, he'd have to request the assistance of someone who had been in this field or that one._

_They passed the other group in the middle of one of the long, narrow hallways. They were traveling downhill to Cysnus’ upward slope._

_Cygnus did not miss the glare that the two male attendance passed him as Numididae took precedence. Their group had to wait, leaning against the wall, as Cygnus offered his assistance through a narrow portcullis._

“ _This door is thicker than the others,” Numididae observed, as the other group began to work their own way through it, back towards the engines._

“ _There are several such doors. We've been referring to them as the 'seals.' In the event of a catastrophe, they will come down automatically. Fire will be contained, or the vacuum of space.”_

“ _Or the perpetual engine.”_

 _Cygnus nodded. “Yes, or our engine. You do not have to worry about that, however. That engine has been built to last. It is more likely that something dangerous brought into the cargo bay, or a fire in the kitchens, would cause a problem. These have a higher probability, so they are placed between the engine and where living quarters are. In a worst case scenario, if the engines are cut off so that we can not communicate with them, a timer will begin back there,” he gestured back the way they came. “An automatic pilot program will be initialized. The computer will record how the_ Dart _got to whatever its current location is, it will calibrate the shortest way home, and turn back. One of your Aquila men plans to calibrate it so that it can determine the safest maximum speed, so that we can get back home. With your outposts along the perimeter of our solar system, the_ Dart _will be sensed and collected the moment is has gotten back in range.”_

“ _Quite the safety measure.”_

_Cygnus smiled again. “Well, there aren't any other ships out there looking out for our people. We must take every precaution.”_

“ _I never thought of exploration as a 'safe' thing, engineer.”_

_He nodded. “No, it is not. This is why the likes of us remain on the ground, hm?”_

_Her chin lifted in mock affront._

“ _I have vacationed on both of our moons, I hope you know. And I plan on visiting our planetary neighbor very soon, actually. Mother plans on being there when the_ Dart _passes it in the night. There are quite the celebrations planned.”_

“ _I don't doubt it,” Cygnus soothed.  “Here is the bridge.”_

_With the wave of his hand over a specific panel, the holocommand came to life._

_Numididae gasped._

_The bridge had been designed with null-gravity in mind. No real up, or down. Panels had been designed to roll along surfaces on a rail system. With a push, one could send navigation to the top, or bottom of the room. In the heat of the moment, it could even be snapped off of the rail and repositioned elsewhere. The rails themselves had been made from a strong metal, he had never worked with the Habicht during their clarification process, but he had witnessed plenty of tensile strength tests. They'd been polished to a soft burnish, so that bare fingers or toes could clasp them and use them as holds._

_Forty separate panels, each with their own purposes. Sectioned off into stations, organized temporarily in a way for the construction crew to make sense of the readouts while the ship remained grounded. Each panel, semi-dormant for now, projecting its display into the middle of the room. Color coded, to some extent, so that the Captain might pick out blue engine reads, or orange scanner readings, or check the red shield status. Each panel, of course, showing images, words, dots, dashes, graphs, thrumming scales in quiet harmony, as the_ Dart _slept on._

Minor irregularity on shielding panel 47-J, _one whispered to him._ Water tanks at three quarters full, recommend find nearest planet with potable water for refueling _, stated another, with a yellow blinking dot that blinked in time with a corresponding yellow light on one of the scanner panels, which had a list of possible planets within scanner range queued up for a living set of eyes to determine which made the most sense._

“ _It's... quite beautiful.”_

“ _She is, isn't she?”_

_How many times had he worked in here? Not as often as many perhaps, but... seeing it through the wide orange eyes of his companion, made him look at it with a certain freshness. If he closed his inner eyelids, he could look at the softened colors and ignore all the data that pulled at his conscious mind._

_Numididae's soft chuckle caught him off guard. He opened his eyelids and openly stared at her._

“ _You haven't been around many women, have you? For all of your joking.”_

“ _One of my teachers, in the academy, and a few theoretical and quantum physicists. Not many women are in our field.”_

“ _It shows. It's a bit of an insult to keep calling this ship a woman.”_

_Cygnus' hand unconsciously reached out to touch a graceful curve of metal._

“ _Oh don't act so wounded,” Numididae blew a puff of air out through her nose._

_She looked... different in the dim, myriad lights of this room. The way the rainbow of colors reflected off of the white flecks of her body. Her weight leaning off on a hip. Younger, now, than he'd first assumed._

_Bright eyes flicked to his, demanding his gaze._

“ _I was not giving you empty flattery earlier.” A delicate, slim hand reached for his face. Cygnus' hand clenched against the familiar metal. Frozen. A single digit traced along the sensitive ridge along the side of his nose. Very. Slowly. “You are quite handsome. It is a shame the captain does not have such distinct features.”_

_Cygnus blinked, attempting to clear his head. “The captain...? Wait. You know who the captain will be?”_

_Her eyes flicked skyward in annoyance. “Of course. The postings are all decided. They shall be announced before the first test launch ceremony. The pool for the captain was a small enough one. All very boring old Aquila. Thin and worn out. Do you think they will notice if we remain in the bridge a while longer? I do not relish going back into the noise below.”_

_Cygnus blinked, shocked she would ask him any question. Wouldn't she know better than he how long it would take for the attendants to begin looking for her?_

“ _We were among the last to board the ship, and the others passed us going back down... they had already seen this area.”_

“ _Good. Turn off all of these lights. And close the door.”_

_He did as he was bid quite automatically. Hadn't been prepared for the fingers delving into the sensitive places around his neck, between the stalks of blood feather spines he could never quite reach to preen himself._

“ _Num...” he caught himself. She still hadn't given him her name to use. “My princess,” he said instead. No idea of her rank, but knew the Aquila didn't mind if one presumed to use a higher rank title, if one was unsure._

_She laughed against the sensitive bud of his ear. Laughing at his assumption? Because it was correct, or because he was far off?_

“ _Do not flatter yourself too much, engineer. You are handsome, it will anger my mother if I mate with you, and this ship is quite amazing. I wish to... bless it, before it's maiden voyage.”_

_Cygnus gasped a laugh, as her fingers reached around to his front, tugging at all the buckles of his uniform coveralls._

Maiden voyage, and no longer a maiden. If the boys down in the engine room found out- _She snagged his shoulder, turning him around and biting him soundly on the throat. He groaned._

“ _I... I've... not....”_

“ _Of course you haven't, that's half the fun.”_

 

* * *

 

 

 _For the next couple days, he found himself at her side whenever she bid, acting as a bulky barrier to the masses around them as the royals performed before recording cameras, made their rounds to see working units, even visiting the adjacent barracks where_ Cloud _and_ Talon _laid in rest. With her hand deep in the feathers of his elbow, or gripping his hand and using his body as a living cloak to protect herself from the songs of the hundreds around her. Dragging him into this corner or that to caress him in private places. Burying her face into the thick ruff around his neck or chest and hiding when the unblinking eye of the cameras, or the press of their people, became too much._

_He held her, or took care of her other needs, as she commanded him. Each touch magical, painful, wonderful in it's own way._

_She would not stay. She never asked his name. He repeated over and over, every touch, every gaze, that he should feel nothing for her. But... ah. There is no point is lying. It was useless to lie to himself, pathetic to lie to others. Just as she did not ask him his name, she also did not ask if he loved her. A small salvation._

_With his construction duties completed, his bunk mates were happy to assist him with the minor issues that needed the occasional bit of correction. Truthfully, his duty had reduced to testing and manufacturing secondary replacement parts. The vast majority of the construction team now had nothing to do, with the ship finished. Nothing but celebrate and prepare for the first suborbital test._

_The fourth day had been nothing but celebration. Culminating in yet more speeches. Speeches that, thanks to Numididae's teasing comment the first day, he knew they would announce who would be on the ship. Small meals, miniature delicacies from around the planet, were served between each pompous declaration. Video recorded and archived for the day they could be broadcast around the planet for all to watch. Cygnus felt both honored and embarrassed to be standing behind Numididae's seat. Whenever a recorder passed by their place at the long, one-sided table, he sucked in his gut and stared resolutely ahead. Attempting to look like the well-groomed, mature Peir he pretended to be._

_Numididae caught his gaze whenever a servant brought her a new delicacy, or another stood to declare some new promise of peace. As he stood as guard for her, he did not have a place to eat. His whole sustenance the tilt of her eyes in a private smile._

_This meal had been set outside, oddly enough, on the launch pad. It took his exhausted mind a long moment to realize that it was probably for visual impact for those damn recorders._ Cloud _and_ Talon _stood silent honor guard behind them, so that the camera would catch a glimpse of their sleek white bodies behind the combined royalty as they panned back and forth. Hundreds of men, and a couple women, sat in neat rows before them, a cheering audience when needed, sharing the dainty morsels passed down each long, low table. All of the scientists, engineers, military, pilots, division heads, diplomats. Everyone involved with the project. Even ones who had been involved on the continent, whom he'd never seen._

_After the first round of speeches were completed, the Eule Queen requested a demonstration of the two behemoths behind them, causing a mad scramble to find pilots, fuel, runners._

“ _She has been planning this the whole time,” Numididae murmured. “Watch her.”_

_He did, keeping Numididae's composed, placid expression in the corner of his eye._

_She set up such a chaos with her declaration, then questioned why the pilots for_ Dart _were not called. Certainly they were on hand, no? What better way to test if they would, in fact, be capable of commanding the_ Dart _if they could not handle the older ships._

“ _She knows that Eule's people are the only ones capable of piloting_ Talon _, doesn't she?”_

_Numididae let the slow blink of her inner eyelid answer for her._

_Politics. If he ever needed a reason to stay in his issued coveralls, it sat on the short throne at the end of the long table._

“ _Please retrieve a bottle of wine from my trunks, engineer. And one of my cloaks, as well. I find the wind chilly.”_

“ _Yes, my princess,” he whispered, bowing away. He wondered why she would send him away, when he'd been acting as her buffer all day, but... hell. Higher rank, female, and fickle Aquila to boot. What did he know of any of them?_

_Cygnus ended up asking for directions from one of the male attendants. After a sour look, he'd been directed to go to the landskimmers in the docking bay. On the other side of the complex. Of course._

_After a healthy walk, he made his way to the main bay. A cavern of a room, used to bring in the larger supplies. Like the hundred cubit long steel support struts. Or the ton upon ton of ceramic that had been delivered over the years._

_He traveled up and down the line, looking for the ship with Aquila's seal. The speared fish._

“ _Ah, there you are.”_

_He had to explain to the men guarding the entrance, but they let him in after a short discussion. One entered with him, intent on keeping him from stealing goddess-knows-what, and led him straight to Numididae's room._

“ _I'll wait here,” the man said, all ruddy bravado._

“ _As you will,” Cygnus replied and ducked through the low doorway._

_The room inside demonstrated rich, simple elegance. Various shades of red silk draped the walls, the numerous cushions on the floor and bed. Occasional touches of gold or silver, but nothing to eye-glaringly garish as her Queen. Not his place to approve or spurn her tastes but at least it wasn't opulent in the extreme._

_He made his way over to the chest without much of a pause. It'd taken long enough to get here anyway, and curiosity over the crew tickled in his nose. He didn't want to miss that announcement._

_He flipped open the catch, finding a thick layer of yet more red silk. He wondered a moment if her family might be one of the major manufacturers of the stuff._

_Mindful of his calloused hands, he dug under the layer of fabric, lifting it up and setting it on her bed. There would be no way he could afford replacing any of it if he put a run in the delicate fabric._

_Cygnus turned back, expecting another layer, or her bottles of wine. It would certainly make sense to store them between layers of silk, so they wouldn't be jarred too much._

_Twenty-one._

_His fingers hovered. His eyes counting, but not comprehending._

_Creamy. Smooth._

_Cygnus swallowed spasmodically. A little ache starting up in his throat._

_Perfect little curves. Each and every one of them._

_His thumb traced one with reverence._

_Eggs._

_Twenty-one little eggs._

“ _Twelve winds,” he cursed. His analytical mind jumping into overdrive._

_He touched each with the sensitive, featherless spot at the base of his wrist. All about the same temperature, a little cool compared to his skin. He closed his inner eyelids, pulling up every memory his father had passed to him, while he did so._

_Heat. They needed to be warmer._

_He checked the chest, looking for any heating unit. None. It wasn't designed to be an egg box. Then... Numididae had not planned for this. Wonderful._

_He thought again, comparing the temperature he sensed to his own body and that of the air. Considering the thick swaddling she used, and how cool they felt, it meant she'd... well,_ had _them, just that morning. It would not hurt them to become a little cool the first couple days, but they needed to be turned. And then kept still._

_If they traveled in the landskimmer back to her nation, the long journey would..._

_He blinked. His fingers had automatically started the slow process of turning each egg just so, only to be interrupted by the sensation of thick, expensive paper tucked between them._

“ _If I were a better woman,” he read silently. “I would have told you to prepare a nest in your own quarters. They are yours, to do with as you will.”_

_The letter had not been signed, but the paper held the same seal as the skimmer._

_He folded the paper and tucked it away in an inner pocket of his jumper._

_His fingers returned to the slow act of turning them. He'd helped raise three of his father's clutches as he grew. The act familiar and calming, even as a million voices screamed in his mind._

Children. Oh goddess. Children.

_His eyes flicked up to the door, wondering how the hell he'd get them past the guard. The letter felt heavy in his inner pocket, sitting against his heart. Too private to share with anyone._

_Cygnus rubbed his face, then sighed with an idea._ Goddess let it work.

_He finished and tucked the silk back into the wooden chest. He'd let out too much warmth already._

“ _Hey, guard. Help me get this chest out.”_

“ _What?” The man opened the door._

“ _Don't ask me to explain, because I couldn't even if I tried. She said, 'I want the wine in the chest, and my robes in the chest.' It's full of wine and robes. Look at these hands! If I try to carry all this expensive cloth,” he gestured to the open lid and the fabric within. “I'm just going to rip it to shreds. You've got to help me. Last thing I want to do is insult-”_

“ _Yeah, yeah, I know. Come on. You get that side, I'll take this.”_

_Thankfully, the man had been careful of every corner, every bump, setting down his side as if it might very well explode if it wasn't treated properly. Well trained guards._

_He pulled a little hand trolley out, used to this sort of activity._

“ _Do you need to guard the case on the way back to the festivities?”_

“ _No. We remain with the skimmer.”_

“ _Ah. Then I will return the trolley with the chest later then, if that is acceptable.”_

_He nodded and waved Cygnus off with practiced ease._

_Back in the long hallway towards the dormitories Cygnus breathed a sigh of relief. Not a very long one, but escaping with his children was...._

_His children._

_Goddess._

_He ignored the occasional curious glance as he pushed a chest that obviously wasn't his right into his shared bunk._

“ _Hey, Cygnus. Have you seen this periodical? There's an interesting new hypothesis on the hybridization of that strain of bacteria that Avis keeps talking about.”_

“ _I've got more important things to think about right now,” he replied. He couldn't help but puff up his chest and show off._

“ _Twenty-one! Congratulations my brother!”_

_Coroba leapt to his feet and enveloped his nestmate in a warm hug._

“ _We had a little bet going, actually,” his brother admitted with a grin. “Avis kept saying that she was dragging you along to mess with you. I'm glad he was wrong.”_

“ _Whatever am I going to do?” Cygnus let himself succumb to the weight of “what-ifs” running through his mind. He flopped down onto his bunk, staring into the open chest._

“ _Well, I'll go get you a nest box, to start with. No way you can do it the traditional way, and keep up with your duties.”_

“ _No, no, your right. But we have no facilities for-”_

_Coroba blew a rude note out. “What did father say each hatching, hm? Never count them until you see the beaks.”_

“ _You just counted them.”_

“ _As did you,” his brother replied with a grin. “Twenty-one! What a brother I have!”_

_Cygnus groaned._

“ _What am I going to do with them when they hatch? I will still be here. Working on the_ Dart _, or her next sister after her. I can't give up my position here!”_

“ _Father will help,” Coroba assured, a hand on Cygnus' shoulder. “I will too. Father has one of the best hatch rates of anyone we know, hm? And he taught us well, did he not?”_

“ _He did,” Cygnus admitted._

“ _I will go find a nest box. I'm sure there's one in some supply closet somewhere, knowing our requisition officer. Tuck them under your feathers for now and give them your first song. I'll be back as soon as I can.”_

_His brother gave him another strong clap on the shoulder and headed off with a cheerful whistle in his lungs._

_Cygnus sat and stared at the little ones._

_He knew they needed their first song. A little nap, curled up in the bunk with them tucked up close to his side, tantalized him. At least covering them, for now..._

_His arms wouldn't move. No song filled his lungs. He simply stared._

_The floor rumbled. The door shook in its frame._

_Cygnus stared._

“ _I found one! A little dusty, had to wash it out. Let me get it warming.”_

_A gentle hand shook him a few minutes later._

“ _It's ready. Snap out of it. They need caring for. The rest will come later.”_

_He hummed a little tune his father had taught them while they were small as he lifted each and placed them in the ceramic divots in the nest box. Coroba hovered at his side, picking up the tune whenever he faltered, but didn't move to touch the new eggs._

_Four slots remained empty._

“ _At least you weren't too manly, eh? If you had twenty-six, you'd be carrying one around in your pocket while you worked on your fool engine.”_

“ _Or made you carry it while working on the shields,” Cygnus countered._

_He closed the ceramic lid. His fingers didn't seem to want to let it go._

“ _You should go back out there._ Cloud _just took off. They're going to have her glide all the way down, then set_ Talon _off.”_

“ _The rumbling I heard.”_

“ _Yeah._ Cloud's _engines didn't want to start up, so we did a quick live-jump from_ Dart _. That was exciting. Especially since they're still keeping the new girl covered until the 'big reveal' tomorrow.”_

“ _You don't want to go watch the pilot throw up in_ Talon?”

_Coroba smiled. “You know me. I'm not one for crowds. Watching on the vid screen is good enough for me. I will stay and guard your children, my brother. All of our visitors will be gone by sundown tomorrow.” He gave Cygnus a gentle shove towards the door._

_Robotically, Cygnus collected the trolley and chest and made his way back outside._

_The head table had been moved off to the side, out of the way, so that the teams had access to the ships. Indeed,_ Cloud _was not in her place,_ Talon _, moved farther down the runway so that her... slightly unpredictable takeoff would be less disruptive to the guests._

_Cygnus hadn't realized he still pushed the chest until he saw Numididae lurch to her feet, eyes wide and back stiff. He swallowed hard and pushed on._

“ _I did not know which cloak you might like. Your security team suggested I bring your chest so that you might pick.”_

_A few eyes turned to them. Her eyes widened in fright. He tried to nod without nodding._

“ _All has been taken care of,” he said, when she did not seem to calm._

_This raised more eyes, but he put the trolley down._

“ _Ah, you're kind are so... coarse. It is refreshing.” Her hands shook a little as she opened the lid._

“ _The hazard of requesting a simple engineer to escort you about our facility,” Cygnus responded, when his own Queen stood up at the unintended offense._

“ _Perhaps you should ask one of your cold Aquila captains for the honor instead,” she said, her yellow eyes flashing in anger._

_Numididae plucked out a thick, quilted cloak and wrapped herself in it. Another high collar, and now not even her fingertips showed for all the fabric._

“ _Perhaps I should. Please return the chest to my room, Peir.”_

_He bowed a little, first to his Queen, then his princess. His mate. The mother of his children._

_He took his time returning the chest. The guards did not even make eye contact, just opened the chest to ensure he had not place anything dangerous inside, then waved him off. They would put it away._

_None but Numididae noticed when he returned to his spot at her back. Even that was nothing more than a glance in his direction._ Talon _had already taken off. But then, he'd been at their test flights. Seeing those gorgeous ladies take to the winds was nothing new, nothing spectacular._

_The gift he'd just been given was._

_She continued to treat him as a servant the rest of the meal, speeches, landing, songs. More and more wine flowed around the tables, until people started disappearing under them._

“ _I have had enough. Escort me out.”_

_He bowed, offering his elbow yet again. The fingers touching him hesitated, sitting over the thick surface of his feathers rather than digging in for once._

_He felt a very real pain at the loss of contact._

_Inside the main hangar, the quiet felt like an uncomfortable fog between them._

“ _We are leaving tomorrow.”_

“ _I know.”_

“ _I wish to see_ Dart's _bridge one last time.”_

“ _My princess,” Cygnus responding. Chastising and obeying with the same breath._

“ _Take me there,” she commanded cooly._

_He sighed and led her to the familiar ladder._

_Her steps slowed to an agonizing pace with the additional silk, each footstep a short tap as her metal shoes barely passed one another, the tips of her toes not even brushing the leading edge of the fabric of her robe. This time Cygnus climbed up with her, hovering a hand behind her; ready to catch and support her if necessary, even if she didn't know it._

_They climbed to the bridge in silence. Cygnus flicked on a few of the status panels, supplying just enough light to see each other. The hanger dark outside the cubit thick glass windows._

“ _I will not give you special treatment,” Numididae declared._

“ _I did not ask for any. We have the same customs your people have, with the eggs.”_

_She huffed and looked away angrily._

“ _It might have been nice to know it was your time, before hand.”_

“ _And what, you would have turned me down?”_

“ _Most likely not,” he replied carefully. He reached for her slim waist, thankful she did not pull away. Embracing stiff, cold silk when his fingertips ached to delve into the warmth of her feathers. “You have given me a gift no other has offered.”_

_She made a disgusted noise. But quieter now. “If you knew what your face does for a woman, you'd have other offers.” Her fingers reached up to trace his nose in a now familiar gesture. “But I suppose that would require you leaving this lonely little island on occasion too.”_

_He sighed into her hands. “Duty, my princess. Duty. The chance to get our people into space is too great a one to be squandered.”_

_She nuzzled him, tucking herself close._

_He'd never known a female to stay long after laying. His father might have been an exception; that one female visited him regularly during her cycles. But, every time, she laid in his nest, stayed long enough to listen to his first song, then went on her way. Her own duties, and the search for other males for the next cycle. He'd never gotten his father to admit that one might have been his mother, but he'd grown up with that one female coming through every other year or so. And that look she would give him. A long one as she first stepped over their threshold each time. Then the little smile and the pat on his head._

“ _They are safe?”_

_He let out a shuddering sigh. Did other males hear such concern? Breaking centuries old tradition to inquire...._

“ _They are.” His fingers traced a gentle trail down the back of her neck. “Their father comes from a long line of champion hatchers. I have four nest-siblings, and even helped raise two other clutches.”_

“ _...Any sisters?” she asked in a whisper._

“ _No,” he admitted sadly. “Do you have...” He swallowed, not knowing if the question were too personal. “Sisters? Daughters?”_

“ _No daughters, yet. Two sisters. Different fathers.”_

“ _You are quite fortunate.”_

_He felt her nod._

_Her fingers began exploring his body again, slow and curious when before she'd been demanding. He did not deny her._

 

* * *

 

“ _Up! Get up, Cygnus!”_

_He groaned and swatted at his brother. Between Numididae's request and his children's needs, sleep had eluded him for most of the night._

“ _Up, damn you! You're on the test flight!”_

“ _What!?”_

_He blinked up blearily._

“ _Didn't you know? They announced your name with everyone else. You're the secondary engineer!”_

“ _Why... how... damn. I can't do it!”_

“ _You will do it! It's too amazing an opportunity!”_

_They gripped each others shoulders, staring into identical eyes._

“ _Go for me. They won't notice.”_

_He got a gentle whack to the side of his head._

“ _When I can't turn the engine on, they'll notice. You're not turning it down.”_

“ _But I can't! Not now! What if-”_

_Coroba's eyes rolled dramatically. “You have been the one doing all the research on safety systems. Of course you're going to be the one they're going to call for it. Just go on the test flight. She'll barely be in the sky. A little hop over the atmosphere, then back to solid ground. You'll be fine.”_

“ _But... the eggs.”_

_His brother's hands tightened into a vice grip._

“ _You will let me care for them,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Turn them before you go. You will be back before the next one is needed. I know your song. I will care for them if anything happens.”_

“ _Or you could just send them to Father. He might have more patience for it anyway.”_

_They smiled at one another._

“ _Go. Get your uniform on. They're going to have a new one ready for you at Supply.”_

_Cygnus scrubbed his face and turned his children. The need to rush warring with the instinctual need to sing to them as he worked._

“ _Okay, hurry now,” Coroba said, mock-offense with his sibling. “I will be watching the video from here, so don't expect me out on the launch ground.”_

_Cygnus nodded one final time. So much he wanted to say, to do. He sighed and ran for Supply instead, picking up his new uniform from the disgusted officer behind the desk. Everyone else had picked theirs up the previous night. He ducked into an alcove to tear off his old jumper for the new one, taking a moment to run fingertips over the elaborate embroidery at his shoulder, before running again for the ship._

_Hangar empty. Echoes of the crowds outside. He ran for the doors._

_Cygnus leaned his hands on his knees, puffing in and out as he tried to catch his breath. Last one in the line. The others laughed. The nearest clapped him on the shoulders. He swallowed and straightened. Across a sea of grinning faces, he could just make out the new table set up for the delegates. Each in their place. Cameras rolling._

_Numididae's hand to her mouth._

_He puffed himself as best he could while the speeches continued, ignorant of his late arrival. He held himself tall, lidding his eyes in an approximation of the aristocrat’s gaze, as the cameras panned over the crew._

_Had she known? Had she pulled rank to get him posted on the_ Dart _? Why would she?_

_Sluggishly, one idea after another swam through his mind, as the crew filed into the ship. Each to their own stations._

_They went through the startup sequence with the efficiency of familiarity. The other two Peir engineers did not comment on the tight grip Cygnus kept on the restraining straps while they experienced a very dramatic take off._

_He hadn't expected the sheer pressure on his body at the ascension. Didn't even try to keep from praying with every breath._

“ _Just get me back to ground,_ Dart,” _he whispered to the ship. The frame seemed to shiver in response._

_The flight, less than twenty minutes long, took eternity. His blood sang to him, telling him he would die with each rapid beat._

Dart _landed in the shadow of where she took off without a hiccup._

_Cygnus kissed an engine pressure gauge without a hint of embarrassment._

_His blood still screamed as they stepped back onto solid ground as a single unit. It screamed as he accepted honors from his Queen. He stood as if petrified as the camera swept past him again, then, the songs began, and he was dragged off to dine, to drink, with his new crew._

_He gazed about for his princess, but couldn't catch a single glimpse of her. Each of the royal members took their leave as the night wore on until no one sat up there at that long, one-sided table._

_Someone whispered to him that Coroba wanted to see him in their room. He left in a daze._

_Coroba grinned like an idiot, hugging his brother and congratulating him once again._

“ _Time to turn them, brother. Then get some sleep. You look ready to fall over. Time for a meal for me!”_

_Just like that, Cygnus was left alone in his room, alone in his life, with his twenty-one children._

 

* * *

 

 _A week later, some modifications made to Cygnus' bunk in the ship, the_ Dart _began her maiden voyage._

_He couldn't help but stare out the window as they passed their neighbor planet. His finger stroking the side of his nose, as he thought of Numididae, somewhere on that colorful marble, staring out at this little speck of light in the dark._

_His crew knew about the eggs. Tradition meant they didn't pry into where they came from, but everyone had seen him at Numididae's side. Which meant he received longer than scheduled shifts and angry glares from the Aquila captain and second. More often than not, one of the other Peirs would slip into engineering and relieve him to tend to his turning duties. Even the little Eule navigator began assisting, sending alerts through the computer to warn engineering when one of the pilots decided it was time to “stretch their legs” and roam the halls._

_Within a few days they fell into an awkward, but manageable routine. As long as Cygnus took his meals in his bunk and never brought reports up to the bridge._

_It had been during one of those quiet moments that a deep shudder wracked_ Dart's _body. Alarms went off._

_Cygnus checked his nest box, the industrial ceramic held of course, but he couldn't help but be nervous. He tied the lid back in place and shoved himself down the passageway to the engines._

“ _What's happening?” he asked. Alarms blared, filling the room with light and sound._

“ _No idea,” Sialis, the younger of the other two engineers said. “We got an all stop from the bridge, then everything started cutting off. There's a containment leak.”_

_Cygnus' fingers flew over the controls._

“ _Damn. I need to get out there-”_

“ _No! I'll go.”_

_Cygnus stared at his fellow Peir. They both knew the younger Peir got space-sick at the slightest provocation. Cygnus gritted his teeth. Duty screamed._

“ _No arguments. Stay in here, give me readings.”_

_He swallowed his guilt as the man pushed past him and to the cargo bay._

_He cursed seven times. “Radio on?”_

“ _Yes, I'm just getting the chemical welder.”_

“ _It's our coolant tank.”_

“ _I know.”_

“ _Hurry.”_

_Cygnus stared as the levels continued to drop. Soon, it wouldn't matter who went out into space._

_Another deep shudder shook the ship around him. A surreal experience, since he touched nothing, and thus wasn't effected._

“ _Can you see what happened?”_

“ _Weapons fire. I'm putting a temp gel on quick. Tell me where it settles.”_

_Cygnus opened up all the internal valves, flooding as much of the internal systems with coolant as he could, saving as much fluid as possible from floating out into space by having as much of it “in use” as possible. He watched the engine's temperature reading fall past where it could accurately read. As long as it stayed above absolute zero, its own internal reactions would be able to pull it back up. Eventually. But for now, the coolant tank levels kept draining. Farther... farther... two thirds...one half.... one third. It stopped._

“ _You got it.”_

“ _It's temp at best. The welder malfunctioned. I used so much sealant gel, I think it's solidifying the coolant.”_

_Cygnus tapped a gauge. “Can't tell yet. Get back inside.”_

“ _Just a minute, I think I see-”_

_Static._

“ _Sialis? SIALIS! Damn it! Come in!”_

_More static._

_Cygnus pulled air through his lungs. He needed external sensors. He radioed the bridge. No response. Labs. Same._

_With a frustrated shove he pushed off for the bridge. Needed to know what the hell was going on before he could decide how to best handle the repairs._

_His fingers itched to pull him into his quarters. Another good shake rattled the ship, this time bad enough to bounce him off the walls. His hands clenched. He kept going to the bridge._

_Screaming. Blood. Chaos._

_The Aquila second shouted orders. The captain sprawled out bonelessly behind him. Holocommand panels glowed, flickered, alert warnings going off everywhere._

“ _I need maneuverability! Where are my thrusters!”_

“ _Sir, I had to take the engines down.”_

“ _WHAT!?”_

_Cygnus refused to flinch._

“ _There's a break in the radio lines down to engineering. We took a bad hit down there. Lost most of our coolant. I had to flood what we had left into the system, otherwise it'd flare up.”_

“ _I thought you said that engine would never go off!” Fists grabbed his collar, shook him and the second-in-command, as they floated and bounced between panels._

“ _They aren't off. Just too cold to give thrusters.”_

“ _Get them up, NOW! We need to escape!” Another deep shudder, as_ Dart _emphasized the point._

“ _Sir, it's-”_

“ _I don't care how dangerous it is! Do it! Or we're all dead!”_

_With that he shoved Cygnus back the way he came._

“ _Get me secondary communication,” Cygnus ordered in turn. “Otherwise I won't know when you want what speed I can get you.”_

“ _Ell. Get it.”_

“ _Yes, sir,” the little Raaf squeaked._

_Cygnus flung himself back down into the bowels of the ship, stopping himself with a quick grab to a strap and a jarring halt to the momentum._

_He flinched when he realized what he hadn't said about Sialis._

_As he fought with_ Dart _on every level, Ell slipped in behind him, a long spool of wire in one hand._

“ _Old fashioned, but it'll do the job.”_

“ _Thank you. I... before I kick on the thrusters, get back up there and do a sensor sweep for me.”_

“ _Cygnus, sir, I can't-”_

“ _Sialis went out to seal our tanks. His radio cut off.”_

_Ell cursed in his quick dialect. “Captain's going to kill me.”_

_Cygnus didn't tell him he thought the captain was already beyond that._

_He clambered back up while Cygnus hardwired his radio with shaking hands. Static. Static. Static. Flipped wires. Screamed orders echoed out. Cygnus shouted back. Started pumping coolant out of the engine. Hoped the seal would hold the remaining. Ignoring the Aquila's insane screaming to vent everything into space and get the engines fired._

_He tapped, yelled, pleaded with_ Dart _. Two percent. Four percent. Eight percent._

_Thirteen percent of capacitors hot enough to activate. He threw on thrusters before shouting that he had them._

_Everything lurched up, then off to the side as the Second rerouted thruster power where he needed._

“ _Need more thrusters!”_

“ _We're heating up sir. I'll give you what I got as I get it.”_

_Nineteen percent. Twenty seven percent._

_Cygnus opened all the thruster valves._ Dart _whined around him. The comfortable thrum of the engines long gone. The incessant wail starting to build up._

“ _Shields are out. Divert energy to that department when you hit forty-five.”_

_Cygnus gulped, hands already skimming those controls._

“ _You got it.”_

“ _...what?”_

“ _Fifty-six percent and climbing. Fire up shields now. We're getting hot down here.”_

_Fast. Too fast. Exponentially fast._

_Worst-case scenario diagrams played in his minds eye, calculations plugging in current data._

“ _We need to jump sir. Now.”_

“ _We don't have trajectory. Do not initialize the drive engine. Do you hear me, you cross species pervert?”_

“ _No choice. Get shields up.”_

_Seventy-two. He started rerouting the power through the interflux matrixes to the drive engine. Untested. The reason for this whole catastrophe. This secondary engine sucked up the heat greedily, giving them time. Seconds at most, but it brought the reactor back into the sixties._

“ _Scanner, Ell?” Cygnus reminded. His mind focused._

“ _...I'm sorry, sir.”_

_Cygnus spared a moment to swallow a quick thanks._

“ _Shields. Need them up. Get your trajectory set.”_

“ _I said no! You fucking Peir!”_

“ _It's that or blow up, Captain.”_

_The silence on the bridge rang in his ears._

_Another blast slammed Cygnus into the coolant gauge. He spat out a tooth and cursed as he wrestled three jobs at once._

“ _Captain? We're four seconds from our jump. Now or never.”_

_Another hit. Something blew behind him. A bright orange burst flooded the room. Fire consumed him._

_His hands gripped the controls, his body tossed like a rag doll. Darkness. Screaming. Silence._

_Coolant flooded the room; the chemicals dousing the flames moments before they began to eat at his flesh. He could taste it in his mouth. Sickly sweet._

_He pried his hands away from the switches. Skin peeled away. He reached for the controls he needed by feel._

_Open valves. Dump fluids. Divert all energy to the engine._

_Alarms filled his ears as the last of the fluid drained away with a gurgle. He threw up the coolant in his lungs._

_The radio burbled in a tinny voice. Screaming._

_He pried his eyes open. Tried to not see the silhouette his hands left on the controls. The edge of charred flesh leaving raised black outlines._

“ _Jump prep,” he coughed out. Hoping the new captain heard. Hoping Ell had gotten the shields up. Hoping someone had put in a heading._

_Alarms blared one-hundred-fifteen percent over and over as he punched the control for the drive to activate._

_Too much power. No containment. No venting._

_Cygnus screamed as he felt the lick of heat at his back._

_Had to stay at his post. Had to get the ship to safety. Had to keep his children safe...._

_His eyes flicked to the open door._

Open!?

No... no no no.

Breach of containment. The seals! Seals should be closed.

_He stumbled._

Gravity? No. Forward momentum.

_He fought against the pressure, climbing. Hallway clear. None of the seals closed._

_Duty._

_Dual duty. He snarled at himself._

_If he couldn't get the ship to safety...._

_He fought to climb up to the bridge. Skin crackling. Lungs burning. Burning._

_He gasped._

_No. Not fire. Loss of containment._

_He fought the last few cubits, dreading what he would find. Knowing what he would find._

_One seal shut._

_He dragged himself up to the small porthole._

_Shot out. Sheared off from malfunctioning shields. Fire flickering, burning in and out as it ate the rest of the oxygen, fed by the output meant for the shields._

_No more bridge._

_His grip slipped at the sheer horror. Fell back. Slid down the hall._

_Sailis. Ell. Rlif. Even the bastard Vrga. The others, somewhere in the ship._

_Protocol after protocol slipped in and out of his mind._

_Fire licked at his face. Lungs began to spasm with the smoke and heat._

Close your eyes.

_He did._

Stop, and think.

_It hurts._

It won't for long.

Get up. _Get up._ Turn the jump engine off. Jettison the hot core. Send out the distress signal.

_He couldn't get to his feet. Fell twice. Hit his head attempting._

Slow down.

Can't get any slower.

_On hands and knees, he shuffled back to the engines. The drive shut down with a scream and a lurch. Null-gravity returned, the clear space he'd been using to breathe gone in a moment as the flame floated without control._

_He struggled to find the physical release valves to jettison the molten core. His hands had become so still... tactile sensation muddied. Had to feel muscle pressure in his arms and shoulders to figure out how far apart his hands were._

There. That must be it. Pull it, hard.

_He did. He put his feet on either side of it. Cried and screamed and cursed. But everything had fused. Lost. No chance...._

The seals, damn you.

_He released his hands, leg pressure pushing him towards where he hoped the door was._

_The curve of the bulkhead slammed into his shoulder. He flung himself around it. Fingers scrambling blindly for the manual release._

_The flames whooshed in with him as the doors closed. Heard it snapping and crackling, peeling surfaces around him._

Vent atmosphere.

 _His fingers pulled one panel after another. Deep into_ Dart's _ruined body._

_High pitched whistling as the atmosphere shoved itself into space, taking the flame with it. Cold wrapped itself around Cygnus' body. Pulled him. Called in seductive voices. Just need to let out a little more. Little more._

_He shook himself, slammed the valves closed. Gasped in pain. Nothing to gasp._

Distress call. Four panels over, other side.

_He blinked his eyes. Everything filmed over red. Inner eyelids couldn't open._

Two buttons over, idiot. Come on. There. It'll go as long as the core is still stuck in the ship. Get into your quarters. Close the door quick behind you. Not much oxygen left.

_His eyes shut again as he worked his way the last few cubits. Last few miles._

_Whoever closed the door behind him was quick about it._

_He sucked in precious air. Screamed out at the incomprehensible pain. Screamed in as well for good measure._

Sing to your eggs, son.

_He grasped around him, trying to find the comforting craggy surface._

_His body curled around the box the moment he found it._

I'll start the song, but you'll have to finish it for me _, the sound of his father's treasured voice echoed within his mind._

_Cygnus could barely breathe, but he mouthed the words until darkness enveloped his mind._


	21. Chapter 21

_McCoy shared a dumbfounded expression with his captain._

“When we found you,” Mr. Spock spoke for them. “Your engine was in a state of complete meltdown. It had taken several days for us to respond to your distress signal. Your shielding seemed to have bounced the radiation back into the ship, causing a superheating effect. Major cracks in the hull showed-”

“Damnit man,” McCoy interrupted. “After you hear all that, all you can do is respond with scientific analysis!”

“I am filling your patient in on the condition we found him in, since it is obvious he fell unconscious. Blatant emotionalism does not benefit anyone in times like this. In fact, one could argue at any time.”

“Leonard,” Cygnus croaked. “Water, please.”

 _Damnit._ McCoy chastised himself. _After I go threatening my captain and first officer, to go and forget it myself._

Cygnus drank down three glasses, taking long breaks in the middle to gasp and groan.

“I am... sorry. I got carried away.”

Uhura put a supporting hand on his arm. “Two weeks without talking, I'm sure I would have been busting at the seams to get that all out too.”

“I have explained what I can,” Cygnus said, his eyes returning to Kirk.

“And I think that's a good note to end it on, Captain. Commander. If you've got questions, they can wait 'til tomorrow.”

“Do you mind if I stay a little while, Leonard?” Uhura asked. “I promise not to talk shop.”

“Up to you, Cyg.”

“It is... pleasant to have company.”

“Fifteen more minutes. And I want Nyota doing the talking. You've exercised your vocal cords enough.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

McCoy shooed out Jim and Spock. They disrobed in mutual silence. Uhura's gentle timbre soothed away the silence as she explained Mr. Spock's search pattern to him.

“While you're here, take a minute to give a couple pep talks, will ya Jim? Chekov is still in a medical coma while his innards rearrange themselves, but the other's’ll appreciate it.”

“Of course, Bones. But then I'd like a minute of your time.”

“I'll be in my office.”

He stayed washing his hands a bit longer than was strictly necessary, reveling in the feel of cool water on his skin. The mental image of burning alive coursing through his mind.

A _live, awake, alert, and attempting to save the ship while his skin burned off of him._

A shiver took him. McCoy clenched his hands under the cold water. Taking one last moment to savor it before turning it off and head for his private stock of bourbon.

He poured two glasses before his liver numbers blinked before his mind's eye. Spock wouldn't take the spare one even if offered. Just a pointless waste of alcohol.

“And here I was craving some Saurian brandy.”

“Good ol' Kentucky rye will have to suffice. What'll you have, Spock?”

“Water will be sufficient.”

He pulled out a matching glass for the Vulcan.

“I'm tempted to write him up for commendation, even though he's not one of our officers.”

McCoy smiled as he put the bottle away. Jim downed his in one long gulp.

“I know _I_ wouldn't have kept my head on my shoulders in that mess,” McCoy frowned, predicting the inevitable. “No need for the snide comments, Mr. Spock.”

“Actually, I was about to agree with you, Doctor. It is not likely that I would have been able to continue functioning in such circumstances, even taking into account my higher heat and radiation tolerances.”

Jim lifted his glass in a silent request for more. McCoy slid his untouched glass across the table. Thankfully, the captain didn't question his sudden sobriety.

“That's going to be some report. Glad Uhura was recording it. On that note, I noticed you assured him that it would be alright to keep his secrets. Anything we should know about, Bones?”

McCoy sighed. “Doctor-patient privilege, Jim. Although I will tell you it's nothing pertinent. Even with all he said about this program of his, I'm aware enough of the situation to know that he was editing along the way.”

“My guess,” Spock said, after a sip from his own glass. “is that 'interflux' drive. He'd been describing the travel as a 'jump,' rather than our concept of continuous FTL travel. If they had a nuclear reactor powering a warp drive, I would assume that they are just beginning to delve into warp technology. Substitute the inferior nuclear power base with dilithium crystals, and we might see something we are more familiar with. It would be fascinating to study their technical manuals; I have not heard of an instance a nuclear core that act as the sole power source. Perhaps, the inadequate power supply would be the reason behind-”

“Spock, let him have his privacy where he asks for it. He doesn't have much – any – right now.” Jim guzzled down this finger of bourbon too.

“I believe I warned you that he was still in the healing process,” McCoy chided. “That's the last you're getting, unless you plan on going off duty for at least six hours.”

“Our duty shift ended two point seven-”

“Enough, Spock, enough.”

“Going back to previous postulation-” McCoy's groan interrupted the science officer for only a moment. “If this nuclear core acted as a sort of battery charge, building up to a specific threshold, and then released in a burst, supplying the warp drive with enough power for a single leap. The core would then have to be given sufficient time to build up another charge before further travel could be attempted. If the inertial dampeners are as inefficient as Cygnus implied, with increased gravity while the warp drive is activated, a journey of any duration would be quite uncomfortable. Furthermore-”

“Spock, does this have a point? It's a bit past dinner time. And breakfast was just the sorry excuse for bagels Scotty brought to the debriefing.”

“I was attempting to make it, Captain.

“The unique nature of the _Dart's_ engine, has two fold consequences upon my postulated search pattern. First, it is quite possible I have not plotted a far enough search radius. Cygnus' concept of time would have been distorted due to the stress of the situation, and even if he could compute the maximum speed his engine was designed to travel at, he had diverted more power than was intended. This could have either a positive or negative effect the intended distance of 'one hop.'”

“And the second?”

“Cygnus did not plot his path. It is also quite possible that his bridge crew had been destroyed before a destination could be agreed upon. There is no way he could know where his planet is.”

“So, we don't know how far we need to go, or how long it's going to take to get there, is that what you're saying?”

“Precisely.”

“And why didn't you just say that in the first place.”

“I believe I did. However, with the additional knowledge that this is indeed a warp-capable race, we had the additional consideration of First Contact Protocols.”

McCoy blinked over at the first officer. “Why do I get the feeling I'm missing something?”

“Spock brought it to my attention that if Cygnus was a member of a less developed race, that even treating him would be in violation of the Prime Directive, Bones. Of course, no one would stop you from doing whatever needed doing, but....”

“You mean, you were thinking we might not be able to take him home at all.”

“Your own people had developed space flight in the mid-twentieth century doctor, and had developed powerful nuclear weapons before that. How do you think your people of that era would react to a warp seven ship? Phaser weapons? Photo torpedos? It is not a simple matter of explaining away superior technology as being a mystical or magical power.”

“Point taken.” McCoy sighed. “I'm glad I'm just an old country doctor. I don't have it in my head to deal with all that crap.”

“And yet, you received higher grades than the Captain in the courses specializing in these issues at the Academy.”

“You drive me to drink, I hope you know that.”

“Indeed.”

“So, what're we going to do? Widen the search net? Scour the entire quadrant, until we find where the _Dart_ came from?”

“I believe we should send a report to Starfleet and await a response. While we have not been given any specific missions in this area of space, it is probable that a continuation in this pattern will take a great deal of time.”

“How long would a subspace message take to get there and back?”

“Lieutenant Uhura can give an exact timeframe, but I estimate it would take one week, four days.”

“'Estimation,' huh? What? Not down to the hour and minute? Your slacking, Mr. Spock. And what do ya propose we do, while we're sitting on our thumbs waiting for an order?”

“Continue our search. I will compile the necessary starcharts for Cygnus to examine, even if the chance they will be of any use is minimal.”

“This region of space is a little to the left of where we're supposed to be exploring, Bones, but I don't think anyone's going to object back home. Especially when we've got the chance for a good First Contact. Nothing like rescuing a person to get the right foot in the door.”

“We will have to be cautious, Captain. After all, we be returning without the _Dart_ , and there is still the question of an unknown agent outside their solar system.”

“As in, we won't be able to prove we weren't the ones to wreck their first warp ship.”

“Indeed.”

“Like I said: driven to drink.”


	22. Chapter 22

Between Uhura and Spock visiting on a daily basis, McCoy nearly called down to Scotty to put a secondary control room right in his critical ward.

Everyone but Chekov returned to their duties. The young Russian woke with his usual energetic rebound, raring to get right back into the bridge, and no where near ready.

Just as Spock assumed, Cygnus saw nothing familiar in the starcharts. He did, however, spend hours every day talking with Uhura, or one of her communications officers. He described the moons, the sister planet that had been terraformed. The yellow giant with rings that they'd used for a gravity slingshot on the way out of the solar system.

Spock narrowed the search field. Omitting all systems with fewer than three visible planets, removed a handful of systems. On description of their sun, the list halved. Apparently B-class stars, with livable planets in their orbit, were few and far between in this area.

Spock, of course, had to point out that such a large, reactive star was quite logical, considering Cygnus' apparent resistance to radiation poisoning and was happy to specify that Doctor McCoy should have deduced this the first day.

McCoy, of course, told him to stick it where the sun didn't shine.

With Cygnus' ability for clear communication, he grew restless. Uhura, and her team, offered mental stimulation in shifts.

“I grow tired of games and stories,” he admitted to McCoy, late one night while the doctor was rotating the eggs.

“It's understandable. Your body is recovering, your mind has been active this whole time. There's only so much bed rest and books I can take too.”

Cygnus lifted his arms, staring at the termination of each. “I have a feeling I will have to get used to a life without my tools.”

McCoy frowned.

“I'm sensing some negative energy here. Are we going to have to bring in Nurse Chapel to cheer you up?”

His patient's eyes tightened in a strained smile. His arms dropping to his sides. “A familiar threat, Doctor. It passes. It always does.”

“If you stay on this ship much longer, I'm going to have Spock come in and start trying some meditation techniques with you. If anyone is going to have some ideas on how to deal with swinging emotions, it'll be him.”

Cygnus hummed a noncommittal answer. They'd discussed meditation a time or too. His patient didn't seem too fond of the idea. Probably had more than enough time in private with just his mind to occupy him as it was.

“I wanted to talk to you about your hands, I guess now is as good a time as any. The last surgery has taken so well, I think its about time for the next one.”

Bright eyes flicked up at him.

“There are no guarantees, my friend. There is a strong chance of rejection. I'm going to have to cut away some of the healed tissue, in order to be able to separate the living nerve endings from the damaged sections, before I can seal the nerves with the regrown ones.

“I know like is not fun for you right now, but you _are_ stable. You can remain like this until we do find your planet. Until your doctors can do the necessary work.”

This remaining fingers clenched. “I request more details, please, Leonard.”

McCoy felt a little smile tug at his lips. Definitely an engineer.

“We've grown three hands for you, one for the right and two for the left. The replacement for the right one, the one I amputated, should be a straightforward surgery. M'Benga suggested generating replacement fingers, and an entire hand for the other. It is possible your body will reject some, or all, of the tissue. On the amputated hand, it would mean that I would have to remove the new tissue, and a portion of your wrist. The amount dependent on how badly your body rejects my work.”

“And, on this one?” he asked, holding up the two remaining fingers. Bone visible through the loose weave of the sterile gauze.

“There is more surface area. Higher risk of infection. Getting all the nerve endings routed will be more complicated. Higher probability you're not going to have proper use of it. M'Benga's idea was to attempt replacement of individual fingers first, expecting rejection, eventual amputation at the wrist, like the other, and replacement of the whole unit.”

Cygnus' eyes closed for a long time.

“If everything works well?”

“A long recovery period. Difficult physical therapy.”

“Painful?”

“I will be aggravating what nerve centers you have left, adding new ones.”

The fingertips tapped together with an audible little click.

“Even pain would be preferable. I can feel nothing, anywhere.”

“It's the one blessing of a severe burn wound,” McCoy said, closing the lid of the incubator and leaning over his patient. “All your pain centers are deadened right now. The moment I start tinkering, that will change.”

His fingers reached up and stroked his gauze covered throat. “This did not hurt so much.”

“I still haven't applied your skin grafts. Those will be last. Among the last. I've got a couple lab techs working on how to grow blood feathers. Got one doctor who's keen on modifying snake scales, since that's how feathers developed back on my planet, and another who insists on modifying hair follicles, since we have the tech to do that already.”

“You will... apply skin without my feathers?”

“We started growing it before we knew you had feathers, and to be honest, I don't even know how I would have grown them in place as it is.”

“I am torn, Doctor.”

“How so?”

“The rest... my hands, the muscles I know you're planning to replace in my legs, my feet, those I will defer to your expertise. My feathers... it will be strange, to return home with bare skin, like you have. No one would recognize me,” he let out a sad chuckle. “With my voice as it is, no one will recognize me anyway. On the other hand, perhaps it would be better for you to wait until you have a living template to work from. My princess did find me quite handsome, after all.”

McCoy gave Cygnus' shoulder a gentle squeeze. The doctor didn't like the self-deprecating comments about his looks. Knew well enough that all he had to offer right now was a friendly presence. What his patient really needed was his own people. His own doctors. His own therapists.

Cygnus sighed into the silence that stretched in between them again.

“You have taken my hands, and my voice. In return, you have given me new life, and given my children a chance. I have never heard of a doctor on my world capable of doing what you have done. Please, do not delay any longer. If you can, give me my hands back, so that I may hold them. Their pipping time is soon; it would break my heart to have another take care of them during that time.”

“I will schedule the first surgery first thing tomorrow then,” McCoy said. “We'll try your right hand first. If it takes well, we can schedule your left hand in a week or two.”

His eyes flared open. “No. Both of them, tomorrow. I can not wait a week, just to try it. If the chance of rejection is so great, take it all now.”

“Cygnus-”

“No. Nine days left. I think. I have nine days. I will not let my children see these hands.”

“Alright. It's your decision. Both it is.”

The rest of the day they spent in their own, separate worlds. McCoy unwrapping, cleaning, and rewrapping every inch of flesh. His mind cataloging the status of each exposed nerve, every prematurely terminated muscle and tendon. Cygnus stared at the ceiling.

McCoy even sent away a few well-wishers intent on keeping Cygnus occupied.

“Too busy,” McCoy grumbled. “Too much to prepare.”

Nurse Chapel had to remind him of the next rotation, and not-so-gently suggested he stop and get a meal afterward.

“You have taken enough readings to last my lifetime.”

“I'm not sure I could ever have enough,” McCoy replied with a weak smile. “Let me get the kids put to bed, hm? Then I'll leave you to rest.”

McCoy did his usual rotation, lowered the lights, and headed to his office. A hot cup of joe, a few messages to choice doctors around the ship, a quick meal in the relative privacy while he got his daily reports finished, and he counted himself ready for a little bit of shut-eye.

In the privacy of his own room, he glowered at his alcohol cabinet while he drank orange juice and flicked through the somewhat long queue of subspace messages that'd been piling up, thanks to Cygnus' curious case.

He flagged a handful to read later, mostly requests to be kept informed on his progress, but one letter from a certain extremely helpful Vulcan Ambassador drew his attention, urging him to read the hundred plus pages of documentation well past when he thought he'd be going to bed.

“McCoy to Spock,” he called, with a thoughtless flick of the intercom.

“ _Yes, Doctor?_ ” a mumbled voice responded half a minute later.

McCoy stared at the speaker, then at his chronometer.

“Shit, Spock, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was half past three in the morning.”

“ _No need to apologize. I would have awaken for Alpha shift in twenty-eight minutes regardless. I assume there is an emergency?_ ”

“Yes and no,” McCoy replied with a sigh. “I received a communique that might effect Cygnus' surgery tomorrow – today – from one of my Vulcan contacts. Would you be willing to go over the findings with me?”

If he expected, “Do you need me to read it to you?” instead he got a moment of quiet.

“ _Shall we meet in your office?_ ”

“No, um... how about the mess. I need coffee urgently. It'll be quieter there at this hour anyway.”

“ _Indeed._ ”

“Alright. See you in a few.”

McCoy scrubbed his face, trying to force his mind into something higher than first gear. Trying to ignore the intense embarrassment he already felt heating his throat at the favor he might have to ask the First Officer.

When McCoy made it down to the mess hall, arms full of various PADDs and readouts, he felt the tension release from his shoulders. Empty, other than the ever-impeccable Vulcan sitting off against the far wall, where he could watch the doors with a quick glance up from his own tablet.

He plopped down his armload before going to the replicators for his much-needed red eye.

“What _is_ a red eye,” Spock asked, eyeing the dark liquid as McCoy blew on it to get it to a drinkable temperature. “I have seen many individuals order it, but it looks, and smells, the same as your regular coffee.”

McCoy resisted the urge to life an eyebrow. _Odd that he's asking, rather than just looking it up on the computer. An olive branch, maybe?_

“A real red eye is a cup of coffee with a shot, or two, of espresso in it. A lot of folks order it thinking it has more caffeine than a regular coffee, which is both true and false.”

“Indeed?”

“Espresso has more caffeine by volume, but its served one ounce at a time. Adding a single ounce of espresso containing thirty milligrams of caffeine to a cup o' joe that already has two hundred isn't going to make that much of a difference, considering it's displacing a good fifteen or twenty mg's of caff from the regular stuff. Espresso, however, also gets bitter fast. Less than forty seconds. So, for me, it just the additional flavor to help me wake up. You should try it some time.”

“I find the minimal amount of caffeine in green tea stimulating enough for my needs, thank you Doctor.” With that, he picked up his own mug and took a sip.

“Hmph,” McCoy grumbled and did the same. _Ah, blessed caffeine. Maybe next stop off at a starbase I'll look into getting a real espresso maker. The artificial stuff doesn't get the right bite._

“Your findings, Doctor?”

“Mm. Yes, sorry. Not mine, of course, but here.” McCoy started flipping screens around to start showing Spock what he'd been sent. “Ambassador Selek sent me the majority of this. He had some experience with a similar creature when he was younger, but doesn't have the records. Amazing man, that Selek. Wrote down everything he remembers from the case; it's over a hundred and twenty pages. Did a job on going through the archives for us too. Got in contact with my Denobulan colleagues at Starfleet medical to piece other bits together. Here, oh shit where did it go... ah. Another couple reports, showing similar wound care on the Tisxk water bison. Don't ask me, apparently the bio readings were similar enough someone put two-and-two together.”

McCoy vibrated in his seat while Spock read through the findings.

“There is a great deal of speculation here, Doctor. And no definite answers.”

“Yes, yes, I know Spock. That's part of the problem.”

“Do you have the results from your previous surgical attempts?”

“Yes. Here. As you can see, I was working on a different scale and the nerves hadn't had time to go dry by then. Hell, from what these scans are showing us, Cygnus' vocal cords aren't hooked up right. I'm a damn fool, and lucky I didn't let him eat anything. I would have suffocated him.”

“Your patient is stable,” Spock mumbled while reading. “I would recommend postponing further reconstructive procedures until we have confirmed some of Selek's findings.”

“According to... here, let me have that.” McCoy flipped through several files. “Here. Yes, he's stable, but the longer we allow his nerve endings to remain 'dry,' the higher the likelihood that we will see total synaptic failure.”

Spock took the PADD back and read further. “Probability for success is....”

“I know, Spock, I know. And that was when he compiled this data several days ago. It's now or never.”

After several tense minutes, Spock sighed and put down the tablets. “Yes, it seems that is the correct solution. However, it does not explain why you felt the need to awaken me to determine this. Surely your surgical team and nurses should be prepping the additional measures presented by Selek, not I.”

“I called everyone before I'd finished reading. Once mt teams come in for shift I'll get everyone set for... everything. The big question I have for you... well... damn. Just read all of Selek's reports, he states it far clearer than I would.”

Spock lifted one of the PADDs from the pile, not looking at it.

“Summarize, Leonard. I will help if I can.”

McCoy passed the first officer a tight smirk. _No jokes, and even dropped the half-sarcastic honorific. I must look like shit for him to treat me like a human being._

“It was suggested... damn, a couple of the doctors suggested it, not just Selek, but I can't ask you-”

“Doctor. You are miring yourself in emotionalism.”

_Aaah, there's the cold-blooded Vulcan I'm used to._

“Right. Well, part of the reason I'm hesitating the way I am is because I've seen Jim ask you to do it, on several occasions, and we both know it is, or can be, pretty... intimate. You know, for a Vulcan.”

“You are requesting a mind meld?”

McCoy blew out a puff of air. “Yes. Maybe. If it's necessary. We have artificial life support and it is possible we might not risk neural collapse at all.”

Spock thought it over for precisely one second. “Your request is a logical one, Doctor. Regardless my discomfort, if my presence at the surgery is the variable that could mean the survival of your patient, I will be there-”

“Thank you, Spock, I-”

“Because,” he continued, holding up a hand to stop the doctor's platitudes. “While it _is_ an intimate act, and any meld with an alien creature holds its own risks, it is done for the good of more than you, or your patient.”

“Of course, Mr. Spock. We must keep good relations between the Federation and a potential new ally in mind.”

“Indeed,” Spock replied. Either ignoring or not catching the sarcasm in McCoy's voice. “When is surgery scheduled to be performed?”

“In ah...” he checked the nearest chronometer. “About five hours.”

“May I borrow these? I wish to read through them thoroughly and meditate in preparation.”

“Yeah, sure. Do you want me to call Jim and let him know you're going to be in sickbay today?”

“I will inform him. Good morning, Doctor.”

With a slight inclination of his head, he gathered the scattered data into a neat stack and left.

McCoy stared at his empty mug until the entrance of the first of Alpha shift ensigns urged him to at least look busy. _Breakfast. Most important meal of the day. More coffee. You're going to need to supplement where lack of sleep is wearing at ya._

He grumbled at his inner voice, bastard always had to make sense, and headed for a big breakfast packed full for protein for long-term energy and tasty b-vitamins to help kicks his brain into gear. And more caffeine.


	23. Chapter 23

McCoy passed one last critical gaze over the surgical suite before approving Cygnus' transfer.

The entire suite had been scrubbed down during the night by team hand-picked by Scott for their tendencies towards OCD. A couple of them stood by, still in their metallic safety suits. More heavy duty than the blue mesh assigned to sickbay staff, but then again, Scotty's teams usually cleaned up the big stuff, like reactor leaks.

“It's good,” he grumbled. “Thank you for your efforts tonight. Dismissed.”

The ensigns saluted smartly and headed back to engineering.

“Let's start moving our samples in,” he directed his nursing team. He pressed the comm unit on the wall. “Transporter room?”

“ _Scotty here._ ”

“Full decontamination scan for each sample you pull out of the labs.”

“ _Aye, sir. Just as you said. We've got two bioscans running simultaneously as they go through the buffers. Only living tissue ye'll be seeing in sickbay'll be yer patient's._ ”

“Good. Go ahead, Mr. Scott.”

Scotty started the long process of bringing samples up from the labs below. Normally they'd just walk the jars in, but with the risk of infection as high as it was, McCoy didn't want to chance the smallest bacteria or airborne microbe hitching a ride into the clean room.

“Get that one to biobed two, in the middle,” he directed, as a bit of thigh tissue materialized. “That one'll go to number four. The head of the bed please,” as a large section of skin appeared.

Piece by piece, Cygnus' body filled the room. Each section in its own vat, jar, or glass vessel. Every specimen labeled that that any doctor could call out “L-2-31!” and the team in charge of the pieces for the left side of his body would come to attention, the second biobed, and look for the 31 sticker. McCoy orchestrated the placements carefully. Less critical pieces in the beds on either end of the room, as Cygnus would be placed in the middle. More time sensitive pieces, nerve vessels, veins, arteries and the like, littered the bed to be on either side of bed three. Organized in neat sections, specialized tissues right next to the instrument tables, non-specific ones radiating out from that based on size. He didn't want to wrestle with a blasted out artery when he could have grabbed a replacement of a similar size.

“Makes you long for the days at the academy, eh?” M'Benga asked. “When we could do as many run throughs as we needed, before doing the real thing?”

McCoy mumbled some agreement, his eyes fixed on the complicated sets of pieces that would soon be Cygnus' hands. Bones, tendons, muscles, stretched out in even little boxes, ready to be assembled.

He spent more time on these, his attention flicking back and forth between wanting those portions to be perfect, and trying to be realistic and keep the whole in mind. Realistically, Cygnus could live without his hands. He couldn't live without a layer of protective skin keeping out the endless supply of microbes in the universe.

“Doctor?”

McCoy jolted at the sound of Spock's voice. He turned his whole body, since the headpiece of his sterile suit kept him from glancing about to see what was behind him.

“Where do you wish for me to place this?”

He blinked at the sculpture in Spock's hands a long minute. Cygnus' face. _I'd forgotten about that._

“I assumed, with the additional efforts you will strive for, that having his template on hand would be beneficial. Cygnus and I have also developed another sculpture, with an approximation of his feather mass added on, but I did not think that one would be of use today. I can have Scotty beam it in, if you change your mind.”

“I... thank you, Mr. Spock. I think that will be a big help. Perhaps, over here?”

McCoy directed him to place it at the head of the bed with Cygnus' hands. While the science officer turned to perform some other task, McCoy allowed himself a moment of distraction to study the modified sculpture.

Spock had spent many hours perfecting the piece. The nasal ridge smoothed, the nares placed farther back as Cygnus specified. The delicate skin around the nasal opening had been lined with minute marks. Eyelids softened a bit to echo Cygnus' expressive tendencies. A few creases in the corners made him look a bit older, by human standards anyway, but he wasn't as young as McCoy kept thinking of him. They'd talked on several occasions of his years at university, the ten years and some at the base. McCoy peered closer at it, to examine the detail in the membranes that Spock'd painstakingly impressed upon the soft clay. He'd even added pores to the skin.

“I have placed markers,” Spock said, startling McCoy out of his examination. “To help indicate where muscle and fat cells will need to be built up. I would propose making use of 'seed' fat cells, considering the amount of reconstruction needed, in light of the additional research made available.”

McCoy nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been planning along those lines. He will look skeletal until we can get his digestive system jumped and running at full capacity, but better that than shocking his body with too much biomass added in one go.”

Spock gave his succinct nod, and left McCoy to study where he'd placed the colored markers on the surface of the pale clay to indicate where what would be needed.

“Makes him look like the clown from my nightmares,” one nurse whispered.

“Get that out of your system now,” McCoy warned.

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.”

Additional life support equipment beamed in under Scotty's deft hand. McCoy and M'Benga hovered where the doctors and nurses would need to be, redirecting the flow of instruments here, or the nerve clusters there, to make sure everything could be reached when they needed it.

“I think we're just about ready,” M'Benga declared, once they had no room to step anywhere. McCoy grinned.

“I believe you're right, Doctor. Call everyone in for a moment, then we'll go get our patient.”

McCoy waited while doctors and nurses filed in, shoulder-to-shoulder, each going to their designated station. A handful of men and women hovered around the edges.

“First of all, thank you for gathering for this surgery on such short notice.” A rippled of nervous chuckling curled around the room. He might have called for it last night, but the entire med staff had been twiddling their thumbs, waiting on specimens to grow and their CMO to declare it time to get to work. “As you all might gather, we're going to try for a good deal more than I'd stated in my memo last night. I've passed around some of the data I got by subspace last night. Have you all gotten the pertinent stuff?” He glanced around, make sure everyone answered in the affirmative. “We're going to go as far as Cygnus will take us today. That means we're going to be seeing a marathon session, people. I know its been a while since we've had to tag team, but if we can get through the triage on Derecha IV, we can handle one little patient.

“That said, no heroics. Alert me at the first sign of fatigue and your alternate will step in. The majority of this is delicate, miniscule work. I'd rather one hour of perfection, than seven hours of mediocre. Is that understood?”

He glared at a couple persons notorious for pushing themselves harder than they could reasonably go, but felt Spock's eyebrow on the back of his head.

“That goes for me as well,” he admitted glumly. “While the first shift works on the under structure, I want concentrated efforts elsewhere. If your section isn't being worked on, I want you cleaning and prepping for grafts. Fast, but precise.”

“Aye, sir,” his teams chorused. He grinned.

“Team One take your places please.”

One group of doctors and nurses stepped up to their places. McCoy turned to get his patient.

“Doctor,” Cygnus greeted formally. “Mr. Spock.”

“How are you feeling today?” McCoy asked, eyeing Uhura. _Why is she here? Why is she hiding that PADD behind her?_

“I am prepared.”

McCoy exchanged a glance with the two bridge officers.

“It's a ah... translation issue,” Uhura said, not clarifying if she meant why she had the PADD, or his very _final_ choice of words.

“Of course,” Spock replied. _Surprisingly diplomatic of him._

“I have asked Lieutenant Uhura to care for my children while you are... busy with my surgery. Is this satisfactory, Doctor?”

“Sounds good. And after surgery?”

“If I am incapacitated for any duration, I would prefer if you resumed the task.”

McCoy nodded. “We'll keep you asleep for a while afterward, to help ease the pain and speed healing.”

Cygnus swallowed, the gauze covering the bare vocal cords rolling with the movement.

“Regardless of my... state. Please wake me when they begin to pip. I am anxious to meet my children.”

“Of course.”

Uhura bent and planted a kiss on his cheek, the action distinguishable by the loud raspberry sound she made through her respirator.

“Good luck.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Uhura. Your presence has been most appreciated.”

She held his hand a moment, then stood to the side so that the small army of nurses could perform the gymnastics needed to get him on a stretcher and into the other room.

“Do I get to ask why he's so formal?” McCoy whispered as they passed.

She shook her head. “Hopefully not.”

McCoy nodded and motioned for Spock to join him back in the surgical suite.

“She was taking his last will and testament,” Spock filled him in.

“Yeah, figured.”

“I believe you are now officially the godfather of sixteen unborn fetuses. Shall I replicate a cigar?”

“I... You know Spock, every time I think I've got you figured out, you come up with something new to surprise me.”

“It is not uncommon for humans to have difficulty grasping the concept of complex organisms. The fact that your species has developed any sort of medical techniques at all is a miracle.”

“And yet you never turn down my snake oil and rattles.”

“Indeed.”

“If you are bickering to put me at ease,” Cygnus piped in as they worked their way through the tight crowd of doctors. “I should let you know, it is working.”

Each man smiled in his own way.

“Alright, gauze off first. Last time to get out any foreign material, so I want all eyes open for the smallest molecule out of place.”

Cygnus remained awake, eyes up on the ceiling as they poked, prodded, lifted, rotated, and flexed every aspect of him. Inch by inch, baring the remnants of his body to the open air. The occasional gasp or groan would pause the doctors as they worked, but their patient didn't verbalize past that.

“Sorry we're keeping you awake for this bit,” McCoy mumbled as they rotated him dorsal side up to clear the swaddling along his torso. “But it'll be easier to check that we're on the right track while you’re awake.”

“I feel nothing. Continue as you need to.”

“You do have pain receptors,” Spock corrected. “Failing to notify us when you feel pain may result in incorrect repairs.”

McCoy frowned at the Vulcan. He hadn't thought that Cygnus' stoicism might work against them.

“This is preliminary work,” Cygnus stated in a voice deep and steady. “Stripping impurities before the metal can be utilized. If I stay your hand here, is not the likelihood of imperfections in the finished product increased?”

“You're not a product, Cygnus. Not an engine to be repaired.”

He wasn't prepared for the shimmer of moisture in his patients eyes when they turned to him.

“Allow me my delusions, Doctor.”

“De-”

Spock shook his head, stopping the argument before it happened.

“Hmph. Well if you were stripping impurities, what would you do first?” McCoy asked.

“Hand this charred mess to the nearest Raaf I could find.” Cygnus actually laughed a little.

“Perhaps you could walk us through your pre-flight takeoff checklist?” Spock suggested, picking up the doctor's idea of keeping Cygnus occupied.

“I'll put your doctors to sleep.”

“McCoy perhaps, but I will find the sequence fascinating.”

Cygnus flinched as they removed the padding from his abdominal cavity.

“External visual check first,” he gasped out. “The bark peelers have been goddessawful this year. It would be humiliating to lose a seal because of one of their nest holes.”

The team whispered back and forth as the two went over every minute detail to get the _Dart_ ready for take off. For the most part, Spock stood silent vigil broken by sporadic clarification on a word or action.

 _I'm going to have to put that green blooded bastard in for a commendation when we're done here,_ McCoy admitted while he removed small filaments that had flaked away from the gauze. _Cygnus' is concentrating so hard on getting his ideas out, he isn't attempting to conceal what he is or isn't feeling._

He'd need to send a thank you note to the Vulcan Ambassador, and the rest of his contacts, first. Once they got Cygnus through everything, of course.

“The doctors are nearing completion with this portion, Cygnus,” Spock broke in, just as their patient was getting into how to clear the exhaust manifolds.

“Good. I'm getting tired of hearing myself talk.”

“I'm going to put you under now, but I'll have to bring you out a couple times partway through. It'll hurt like the dickens. You might be restrained when you wake up.”

“Don't panic, yes, I know, Leonard. You told me all this when you woke me this morning.”

McCoy smiled. “I'm just reminding you.”

He and Mr. Spock exchanged a bit of a look.

“You are still complacent with my possible assistance?”

“Skeptical, but open to the experience.”

“Cygnus.”

“Yes. If this mind meld is necessary, do it.”

“Thank you.”

“Count back from a hundred,” McCoy said, just before pulling the proper hypo.

A moment of calm silence encompassed the room as the surgery teams waited for Cygnus to slip into unconsciousness. Eyes either on his bare body, or the sensor screen above him.

“Nurse Chapel, please start the timer. Past fourteen hours, survival chances go down drastically,” McCoy reminded the room at large. “Laser scalpel, please. We're going to start with the right hand.”

Teams moved with fluid precision. Tools sprang up to his hands the moment he thought about them. A bucket brigade organized with the necessary parts.

“Wish we could have preassembled those hands,” M'Benga grumbled.

Sonic separator in hand, McCoy teased up each nerve cluster for M'Benga to check for viability, cutting, pulling, bending, snipping away the surrounding flesh to clear the path.

“You did that with Ensign...”

“Saunders,” M'Benga supplied. “Her foot.”

“Yes, that was it. Severed in one of the airlock doors, wasn't it?”

“Yeah. Three years ago, when I was stationed on the Constitution. Grew the parts separately like this, but got it all together beforehand. Just had to scalpel above the smashed tissue and rejoin.”

“From what I hear, you accidentally gave her a half centimeter more length on that leg.”

“Estimates are exaggerated. Tease that nerve bundle away for me, will you? I'm having trouble getting that tendon out of the way.”

“Ah, that's one of the ones that bent back and dried up in the wrong spot. Let me cut the whole section away and replace it.”

“Hm.”

“This is why I prefer jigsaw puzzles. No surgery is going to be textbook. Pieces move around. There we go. Thomas, please hand me R-1-34-B. Might as well fuze the new tendon while I've got the space cleared.”

“I think the nerve ending under it will need replacement too,” M'Benga grumbled. “Quick scan, please.”

A whirling wand moved into their line of sight and out again.

“Intact.”

“Thank you.”

Sweat prickled at McCoy's neck. His back ached at the constant angle he held himself at. Sonic separator. Tweeze the nerves apart. Laser away tissue. Place appropriate replacement connecting tissue. Tri-laser connector. Seal the ganglia.

Seventy nerves, sensory and muscular, traced out, spread along the smooth fabric. Hundreds of ligaments prepped. Over fifty muscles. Thirty-two bones. Piece by minute piece the hand took form. For a long while, appearing more like a anemone than a humanoid appendage. All the soft tissue attached at the base of the wrist, waiting for McCoy to align the first set of bones, attach ligaments, line up the next set of bones, and collect the muscles again. Little bundles of loose muscle and bone. Nerves threading this way and that throughout. His mind categorizing as if he were working on a human, fighting to organize all the extra pieces. Median-A, median-B, ulnar, radial-A, radial-B. Muscles overlying muscles in a tight web.

“Complicated stuff,” M'Benga grumbled, as they placed the distal phalanges, tying up the last of the nerves and muscles to keep the fingertips in place. “His hands must be pretty sensitive.”

“Hopefully they will be,” McCoy murmured, taking the tri-laser to each filament.

“It must have hurt like a bitch to have all that burnt off,” one of the younger doctors commented.

“Yes, I'm sure it did.” He sighed, plucking at another nerve. “I'm gonna guess three times our tactile sensitivity.”

He straightened with a groan. “Someone double check all of that. My back is killing me.”

“Do you want an anti-inflammatory, sir?”

“Yeah, might as well. Not as young as I used to be.”

He waited for his back to ease, letting men with younger eyes and more ambition to trace each ganglia.

“Want to test them before we seal up?”

McCoy closed his eyes. Ah yes, the painful part of this.

“Yes. Let's get it over with. Prep local painkillers please. Give Cygnus the anti-sedative. Just enough to get basic reactivity.”

All eyes were on the patient, watching as his eyes twitched under his eyelids. Outer eyelids flickered, the inner ones stayed put. Throat started bobbing.

“There, that's enough,” McCoy, watching his heart rate, breathing, and brain activity. “Cygnus, can you hear me?”

A long soft breath. Somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Eyelids closed again.

“More?”

“No, let's keep it here. Cyg? It's time for your first test. I need you to open your hand for me.”

Another groan, a little louder.

“I know, kid, I know. But it's gotta happen.”

The left hand moved, the two digits twitching.

“Other hand, Cyg.”

“An idea,” Spock interrupted. “Cygnus. You need to open the port lubricant vent.”

Eyes still closed, both hands lifted up, clenched to varying degrees of success around an invisible control mechanism. Twisted, as if turning a wheel.

“You need to close that vent now,” McCoy said, falling into the strange pantomime.

The hands twisted the other way, released the grasped air, fell slack at his sides.

“Okay, that's creepy,” McCoy heard someone whisper behind him.

“There's a fly in the room,” M'Benga suggested, a fine tipped tool in his hand. “But it's dark. I can't see it. Can you tell me if you feel it?”

A quiet, agreeing hum.

M'Benga tapped several points on the skinless tissue. Fingertips twitched at the slightest provocation. Sensitivity in the middle phalanges were less reactive, but there. Proximal reactions were spotty, some reactive, others not at all.

“Back under,” McCoy ordered. They waited for the drugs to take effect again and performed what corrections they could.

“Skin now.”

“Not going to test it again?”

“Too much stress on his respiratory system. Reactions were better than I expected, I'm going to leave it at that.”

Some enterprising labtech had decided the best way to form the skin for the hands as a single unit, by pouring the DNA gel they'd synthesized over a clear glass fabrication of what they'd assumed his hands looked like. McCoy pealed this off of the mold, eyeing it with a speculative glare. They hadn't discussed fingernails, or claws, or anything. Of course, those could be implanted later, like they planned to do with his feathers. Hopefully.

“Saline,” M'Benga suggested, realizing the problem. “Only way we're going to get it on in one piece.”

“Someone get me a bucket.”

An assistant situated the new hand to hang over the edge of the biobed, bucket tucked underneath. A nurse filled the skin “glove” with saline, blowing it up so that the inner walls didn't stick to one another. An extra couple hands supported the delicate skin as McCoy slipped the tissue up and over the collection of muscle and bones. Water squeezed out as they pressed it up.

He heard a couple nurses excuse themselves from the room.

“We'll need shunts put in the wrist, here. I don't want the excess fluid keeping the skin from adhering to the muscle properly.”

A small tube appeared for him to insert, which he did with utmost care.

“Dermal regenerator,” he ordered, holding a hand out for it.

He swept the device over every square centimeter, from the tip of each finger down into the palm. Water continued to pool at the seam. Helpful hands slipped in with absorbent pads to pick up the excess.

They swept the forearm for nerves in need of work, replacing the more cooperative sections of muscle and bone. McCoy called for the skin. A sheet passed from hand to hand, several doctors stretching, matching up seams, wrapping it tight, suturing down and fuzing into place. Excess trimmed away.

“Upper arm next. Want to get that settled before the elbow.”

They worked methodically right up to the armpit, rotating Cygnus up on his side to get the back of his arm and the curve of his shoulder in one piece. Considering the range of motion required there, McCoy wanted to keep seams in that area to a minimum.

“Doctor,” Spock interjected, as McCoy started debating covering more torso, or heading over to the next hand. “Perhaps it is time to change shifts?”

The CMO squinted up at the First Officer, ready to argue the point... until he realized he had to squint to focus on the Vulcan.

“Yeah. Teams, change out. This is as good a time as any. Doctor Youseff, do you feel comfortable beginning the second hand?”

“Yes, sir. Which... method would you prefer using?” She asked, indicating the two sets of parts on her side of the operating table. Amputate what little he had left of that hand, have a lower chance of rejection and a higher probability at permanent numbness, or keep the remaining two fingers and, well, cross their fingers.

“Let's not put all our eggs in one basket. Keep what we've got. We can always go back in later if infection sets in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Youseff took over with her usual perfunctory order, recollecting the minds of the people who'd been bystanders for-

“Time, Ms. Chapel?”

“Six hours, Doctor.”

“Damn.”

“...Do you still want me to save the fingers?”

“Yes. Yes. Do what you can. Davis. Start prepping those legs. I want both feet done simultaneously.”

“Sir? Won't that interfere with testing, to see if we've gotten it right?”

“I believe Cygnus would prefer to have two working hands, and be stuck in a wheelchair, than have two working feet and no hands, Mr. Davis,” Spock clarified. “Go take a walk, Doctor McCoy. I will remain here to supervise.”

McCoy bristled a moment, but knew the blasted Vulcan had the right of it. His lower back still ached. He needed a stimulant to be functional.

Several of the others walked out with him. A team from the labs had volunteered to help with robing and disrobing everyone. McCoy smiled his thanks to the young man who pulled his respirator off.

Someone with a bit of forethought had connected the security camera in the suite to several monitors, so that even standing in the other rooms, McCoy could keep an eye out.

“I thought you were supposed to be resting,” Nurse Chapel said, bearing a large tray covered with mugs of steaming coffee.

“You are an angel on Earth,” McCoy replied, cupping the hot ceramic between his hands.

“I'm not an angel, we aren't on Earth,” she replied with a smile. “But I'll take the compliment none-the-less. How's it going in there?”

McCoy sighed and took a long drink of the strong brew.

“Would you think worse of me if I said I didn't want to jinx it?”

She smiled. “I prepped a couple topical painkillers and another anti-inflammatory for you, sitting on your desk. If Doctor McCoy saw the state you'd let yourself get into, Doctor, I think he'd say to sit down while things are going well, get a good stretch in, and take a walk around the deck before you go in to help again.”

“I think this Doctor McCoy you've been talking to might have a good idea or two.”

She smiled and nodded again, going to deliver the rest of the coffee to the doctors and nurses standing around watching.

McCoy sat down long enough to jab himself with the prepped hypos, his private monitor displaying Doctor Youseff's work. He sipped and watched as the fine white filaments were teased from the remaining tissue. Fine threads winding together into thin strings, then long cords, leading up the elbow and away. With the surface muscle and skin destroyed on his remaining fingers, the sensory nerves were destroyed, but the amount of tactile control Cygnus'd demonstrated the past week, he knew that the motor control was still there.

Hippocratic oath or not, the chance of losing two potentially useful fingers didn't sit well with him.

Youseff dissected those remaining fingers, slicing deep into the palm to reveal where they'd removed the finger from between the two digits. The hand jerked in pure motor reflex as she came in contact with the motor nerve deep in the palm. McCoy's hand jerked in sympathy. He set down the empty mug before he dropped it.

“Leonard,” Chapel stopped him from going right back in. “One lap around the deck. That's an order.” She held up the PADD where he'd written those exact orders himself this morning.

“I meant that for everyone else,” he grumbled.

“If you did, you wouldn't have written them down. And I quote ' _Anyone_ who defies this order will be placed in the brig, and not released for at least six hours.' Shall I take this to the captain?”

“No,” He rubbed his neck. “Walking.”

_Wish I'd gotten sleep last night._

He got a couple concerned glances as he headed out the main sickbay doors.

His feet took him up to the bridge without full permission from his frontal lobe.

“What's up, Bones? Thought you were in surgery?”

“Taking a walk,” he said, his eyes on the front viewer. The infinity of space just outside, like every other day.

Jim got up from his captains seat, nodding for the two of them to step over to the side. Didn't avoid the curious stares, though.

“Come on, Bones. Something's bothering you.”

McCoy shook his head and sighed. “I don't know why I'm up here, Jim. I should be down with the teams, but they kicked me out, and rightly so.”

“Kicked you out?”

“Didn't get any shuteye. I'll go back and supervise in a couple minutes, but my concentration is too far gone to be useful.”

“Why didn't you get any sleep? Thought you lived for surgery.”

McCoy made a dismissive hand gesture. “Got some responses to that all-points I put out when we first found Cygnus. Kept me up all night long.”

“Oh? What did they say? Something to do with why you have Spock down there?”

“He didn't tell you about it?”

“No, not a word. Just said you required his attendance.”

“Of course he didn't explain. Why would he. Still don't have any contacts that've worked with these people directly, I don't think,” McCoy mumbled to himself. He had some doubts, considering some data looked _really_ species-specific. “A lot of it was disheartening, really. Makes me wish I hadn't waited.”

“Bones,” McCoy looked up at his friend. “Don't beat yourself up, eh? If you had done the surgery earlier, you wouldn't have the additional research, right?”

“Riiight.”

“And knowing you, that stuff wouldn't have kept you up if it wasn't important.”

“Right.”

“Life or death? Or Spock would get his snark on about helping you.”

“Exactly.”

“So? Things will work out. You waited long enough to get the right data, then got right on it when you were able to. Knowing Murphy's Law, if you tried it earlier, thing's would've gone to shit. If you'd gotten to bed, it also would've gone to shit, because you would've missed necessary info. You've got an awesome team down there. I know, I signed the order to have half of them transferred in.” Jim grinned. “Let them do their jobs, you do yours.”

He gave McCoy a hard clap on the shoulder. “Now get back to your station, Doc. I'm sure Spock's lost without someone to razz.”

“Right. Thanks Jim.”

“No problem, Bones. Now let me get back to work finding his people, would ya? Very busy captaining stuff up here.”


	24. Chapter 24

McCoy accepted another mug of coffee on his way back in. M'Benga hovered around one of the larger monitors, so he turned to join him, rather than go to the privacy of his office.

“Progress?”

“Youseff has separated the remaining nerve clusters. There's more salvageable than I first thought,” he replied, pointing out where the younger woman had not only teased lose the fine filaments, but separated them all the way back to the elbow.

“A little extreme?”

“There was some signs of scorching. When they pulled him out to test what was left, there was a dead spot where the middle finger would be connecting to. She ran the line up, rather than just replace the section in the palm.”

“Ah. Good choice.”

They watched in silence as Team Two picked and plied away what remained of the left hand.

McCoy watched Doctor Youseff work over the patient with a frown. "Damnit, her hands are shaking."

M'Benga watched a while himself. "Damn, your right. And here I was thinking I'd get a bit more of a break than this."

They exchanged a glance, a bit of a smile, and headed over to the sanitation station. With the help of a couple nurses they got prepped and ready to go back in in record time.

"Doctor?"

"It's alright, Spock. I've got three cups of coffee in me, and I'm ready and raring to go again."

He stepped up next to Youseff, offering to pick up pieces where needed. She didn't back away, kept hold of her tools. McCoy stood next to her and simply commented here, or there, as she prepped and pulled.

Three hours in. Half the time he'd taken to do the comparatively simple job of replacing the whole unit.

"Are we going to make it?"

McCoy shook his head, after a moment of working out his internal timetable. "Go ahead and start the legs. The moment we've laid out the rest of the nerves. I don't want to loose any time while we're doing this."

"That could be dangerous," M'Benga said. “Starting to miss the days when we used prosthetics.”

McCoy's mind raced while he started calling for muscle tissue to be passed up. Sections of forearm muscle had atrophied, just like the other arm, but the uneven nature of it made McCoy risk removing sections and replacing them with new. Already had the parts, might as well.

He found a couple little bubbles of radiation damage when he lifted away one gnarled section of ulnar tissue. He pointed these out, the small hard nodules that had passed first observation, and told all the folks standing around twiddling their thumbs to start palpating muscle tissue to see if they could find any others while they were at it.

Forearm muscles reattached with relative ease. McCoy laid out the muscles and bones with Youseff's assistance. Laid out like puzzle pieces, waiting to be attached. A hard jerk twitched Cygnus' hand out of place.

"Easy on those nervous stimulators up there," McCoy grumbled, not looking up at the doctor tracing the bare muscle up on the shoulders.

"I didn't hit anything."

McCoy stood back a moment, eyes flicking back and forth, trying to find the source of the irritation.

"What do you think-" Another twitch, the whole hand spasming, pulling the muscle from the bone. "Shit."

"That reaction was indicative of-"

"I know, Spock, I know. Synaptic collapse. Are you ready?"

"I am prepared, Doctor." Spock's hands hovered over Cygnus' face. "I can not touch him yet... the meld will be incomplete."

"Go ahead and touch him, damnit. If we burn out his synaptic system there won't be a immune system to fight for."

"Indeed," Spock said. He removed his gloves and placed his hands over the melt points. "Your mind to my mind, your thoughts to my thoughts."

McCoy bent back over Cygnus' hand. "Everyone, step up your speed."

“Won't that make the probability of neural burnout higher?"

"Just do it," McCoy growled. Calling for the bones in the hands in sequence, the muscles soon afterwards. Sweat trickled down his neck as he worked. Sets of hands wavered in and out of focus as his people fought to get the job completed.

"Doctor, I believe you have some of the nerves twisted through the radial bones," Spock informed; Cygnus' voice echoed with him.

"What's going on with that?" Youseff asked, staring up at their patient.

"I am doing the best that I can, Doctor."

"Vulcan's have conscious control of their autonomic systems," M'Benga clarified as he slipped in to correct the issue. "It is well within Spock's abilities to sync in with Cygnus, but that might mean a little spill over."

"The way you state it makes it seem like I have little control over the situation, Doctor M'Benga," that odd dual voice said.

"You're going to have to tell me what he think's of the Egg Stealer," McCoy teased as he tried to keep his concentration up.

"I have no interest in delving into any other being's memories, I am taking control where need be. Please turn your attentions to your own work." An uncomfortable sort of quiet filled the room. Requests for muscle, bone, vein, arteries, nerves muffled under collective strain. The puzzle set in neat columns, checked, then woven together.

"Sonics, please. I want to make sure all these blood vessels are clear." Little ultrasonic pulsars introduced, run up and down the length of each minute line. Small clogs from the charred tissue eased out before new pieces attached.

"Just about ready for the skin," McCoy called out, as he passed a regenerator over the surface muscle, binding them together. "Spock? You ready for a test?"

"Yes. The other hand too." Before McCoy could ask for one of the probes, Cygnus' hands jerked up into the air again. This time, instead of a hazy grasp, they went through a series of articulations. Fingers closed and opened in loose fists, then tightened enough that the knuckles turned pale from stress. Thumb closed to the tip of each digit, then ran along the base of each finger. Not all of the fingers closed to the same extent. Perhaps with some physical therapy....

"Do you feel up to testing flexibility?" McCoy asked.

"There is pain with the movement," Spock/Cygnus replied, as they used one hand to press the fingers of the other. "But it is not unwelcome. Are there any other tests you wish to preform?"

"Tactile and temperature sensation," McCoy replied. He traced lines from the palm to the tip of each finger in turn with a thin metal probe.

"Sensation," The pair commented. A strange lilt to Cygnus' voice, even as Spock's remained placid.

"Yes, Mr. Spock, that's the idea. Care to tell us which ones are missing section?"

"Please repeat it," they asked. Again, McCoy performed the test. This time, Spock/Cygnus spoke out when there was a numb spot. "Will the numb locations repair themselves eventually?"

"No, Mr. Spock," McCoy replied, knowing that he should be saying "No, Cygnus," but talking to an unconscious patient on the table, might be just a tad too strange, even for a doctor way-too-familiar with the strange. "Let's open the skin back up, see what we can repair now."

"I believe my control over total synaptic failure will be... more difficult, as you reopen those sections."

"Are you saying we shouldn't be reopening, Mr. Spock? Or do it quickly?"

Spock's head tilted to M'Benga. His eyes still closed. "Focus on the tips of the fingers first. I will attempt to keep control for as long as possible."

"Temperature sensation first," McCoy suggested. Someone handed him an ice cube, then a towelette moistened with alcohol, and finally a probe heated to a little over fifty degrees Celsius. Several of the previous numb spots, from the tactile test, also tested negative for the heat, or cold. A few other negative locations were new. Frustrating that not all of them were in the same spots, of course.

"Okay, open him back up again." Keyhole surgery now. Little holes here and there opened up, nerves touched with tiny sparks of electricity to see if they were nonfunctioning or ineffective. Replaced as needed.

"Doctor... Cygnus is experiencing intense pain in his left leg. He- ah!" Spock's shout of pain surprised the lot of them. Attention turned to the leg in question.

"Shit, blood clot," one of the doctors working there shouted out. An entire section had blackened from lack of fresh blood.

So little time needed for flesh to die away.

Just a moment's inattention.

"Come on folks, we've got the replacement parts, we can do the job." They put their collective noses to the grindstone. Removed the whole vein and surrounding muscle tissue, since they had enough replacement pieces to build another avian on the next table.

"I believe another one has traveled into the torso... can not detect the precise location. Close to where I swallow."

"Shit. Someone find where the clots are being thrown from. All the moving around to get him to the table must have knocked them loose. Sanders, trace that vein, will ya?"

"Aye, sir."

McCoy, M'Benga, Youseff and a couple others grabbed medical scanners, each claiming a major vein or artery to trace.

"Got it!" Youseff shouted. "Outer surface of the left lung."

"Damn Murphy to hell," McCoy grumbled. "Someone go grab me the thoracic kit. We're going to need to open him up for this. Spock, should you pull out while we go in-"

His face screwed up a little; Cygnus's shoulders twitched in a rough shrug.

"No. I will remain," Spock said, Cygnus quiet this time. "I am withdrawing as much as is feasible, while still being in control of certain regions of his nervous function. I am not able to tell you where the damage is within his torso, so there is no need for me-"

"Of course no, Mr. Spock,” M'Benga said. “If you stay in, you'd just be feeling the pain he'd be dealing with."

"No, he's not feeling any in there," McCoy corrected. "One of the few places he doesn't have a lot of sensory nerves. For once, someone's on our side. Keep working on those legs."

McCoy grumbled, when he noticed there was a pause in the work from that team.

"We've gone too long as it is."

McCoy passed the work on Cygnus' left hand to Youseff again, while he turned to the lungs.

"Of course we didn't replicate any other organ tissue," he mumbled, his fingers tracing the dead sections.

"I believe he has enough surface area to remove that area without significant drop in functionality," Spock said after a glance up.

"I believe you're right. Laser scalpel."

He cut away and cauterized as he went. Slicing away dead tissue while someone else traced the clotted area.

"Will one of the veins for the thigh work here?"

"It's going to have to. We don't have any other options." McCoy called for one of the larger ones that hadn't utilized yet.

It'd be a tight fit, with a good chance that he'd have to keep an eye on it the rest of his life. Well, more than enough continual care to just add it to the list.

"Leonard," Spock/Cygnus whispered.  The fact that Spock hadn’t mentioned sinking back in sent a higher spike of worry down his spine. "There is a certain shortness of breath."

McCoy glanced at the biobed readouts.

"Oxygen saturation rates are within acceptable levels. Heartbeat is a little fast but-"

"I'm afraid." McCoy's eyes shot up at their dual, shaking voices. "I'm afraid. It hurts... It hurts so much... and all I can think about is-"

"It's okay, Cyg. Spock, open up the sensation in one of his hands, will you?" A slight head tilt, and then a nod. McCoy slipped his gloved hand into the left. Small cuts still opened up for work. "I'm here. We're all here. We're going to get you through it, alright? We haven't let you down yet."

"McCoy, the effort of 'false hope,' is not something to spend the time on when-"

"Ya know what Spock? It is damn strange arguing with you, and comforting Cyg here, when you're talking with the same voice. You green-blooded, featherless, cross species pervert."

Spock's eyebrows went down, but the fingers gripping his tightened.

"Thank you, Doctor Leonard."

"Now that's just damn strange," M'Benga muttered next to him.

"You're telling me. Cyg, how about you spend some time knocking sense into that mind-burrowing Vulcan in your head. I'm going to need my hand for a little bit to see if we can get this under control."

"I understand, Leonard." The hand fell slack again, Youseff jumping in to suction out blood that'd seeped from the handful of small cuts in the new flesh. McCoy delved back into the chest cavity.

"If you don't write a paper about this, I'm going to," M'Benga said. "In fact, I might approach the New Vulcan Colony, next time I'm in the area, and see if we can get a full-time Vulcan doctor in here."

"I doubt you'd find many others to volunteer to subject themselves to this... unique torture, Doctor M'Benga. Please release the clamp in there with expediency. I'm finding it difficult to regulate our heart rhythm."

McCoy frowned. "Someone get a read out on the First Officer. I don't want to see him have a heart attack while we're working."

"Improbable, Doctor. His current tempo is similar to mine in a state of second level meditation. In fact, I believe breathing is the more difficult function. Cygnus can speak while breathing in, or out."

"Thank God that's not a Vulcan trait. I'd go crazy." Discussion slipped away again as they searched out the clots that had slipped here and there. A small one in the atrium of the heart, another in a secondary lobe of the lung. Smaller ones in stomach and intestines. Small enough they hadn't been seen during the first round of tests. _How we'd missed them_ all _... Damn._

"We're going to have to finish the skin the moment this is done," McCoy declared. "No option now. We're making too many incisions. Too many chances for infection. Start placing pieces as we clear out each section. Status people."

Each section called out their status, one at a time. Left leg completed. Right leg needing one more toe attached. Right arm cleared, save a couple corrections left.

"Start applying the skin. Tactile and temp tests as you go. Spock, tell us if we go too far too fast."

"Yes," they said simply.

McCoy still approved section by section as they went. He checked and double checked each area himself before they completed the final seals in the new skin. The last thing he wanted was to have to open him up again and again.

Shock loomed.

Skin of legs and arms slipped up with relative ease. Some discomfort while dealing with Cygnus' "underwear area." Why hadn't he spent the time talking with Cygnus about all of the mess he'd made during that first drastic surgery when they'd cut away anything that might've continued the radiation poisoning within his body?

Asking Spock, with the various doctors all around, what his, meaning Cygnus', anatomy should look like, and having Spock responding in the first person, with both his and Cygnus' voices... whoo boy. Talk about awkward.

“I believe... it would be to everyone's ease if we left that area for a separate attempt?”

“Sorry, Spock, if we're going to get skin on everything, we've got to get everything accomplished.”

They sighed in unison. A touch of relief for Cygnus, the distinct hint of annoyance in Spock.

A bit more of a discussion followed, clouded in clinical terms that Spock hunted for translations of.

“Can we start prepping his throat area?” One of the doctors from the first team asked. “I mean, will we be able to do his face if Spock is using his touch-telepathy?”

“Once all other areas have been cleared, I should be able to remove my hands,” Spock said.

So, they worked. Hands checked and double checked. Feet checked. Torso checked. Shunts and drains placed where appropriate. Body wrapped tight to help keep fluid from gathering under the patchwork of new skin. Muscles in the throat peeled back like an orange as a doctor on either side placed the intricate network of nerves that would lead to the throat tissues.

“I would recommend increased speed,” Spock/Cygnus murmured. “The pain is escalating.”

“Are you going to be okay to disengage?”

“Yes,” Spock said. His voice hollow without Cygnus' baritone echoing under him. His hands lifted away woodenly. His face a hard set of lines.

“You're still connected?”

“I will do my best from here,” Spock's single voice said, hands hovering like an old school puppeteer.

McCoy passed a glance over at the nurse keeping an eye on Spock's vitals. A slight nod that the Vulcan didn't see. Still going strong enough. Good.

“Someone get me that head,” McCoy groused.

Cygnus' clay head appeared.

“Bet you're wishing you'd found a way to sign on that plastic surgeon fellow.”

“You'd better believe it.”

Diagnostician, surgeon, general healer... discovering the cause and effect of the myriad of ways that the human – or any species for that matter – might find themselves injured or sick while wandering the great transverse of space, that he could handle. Building muscle, bone, and seeding fat tissue so that, once covered with a good layer of skin and healed, would not only look like a species he'd never seen before, and a specific individual at that, this sat at a much higher caliber.

Cygnus' body twitched on occasion as they cut away, mapped out, and built up as they did elsewhere. Muscles spasmed under McCoy's hands.

Lungs shuttered as he pulled. Spock's breath echoed above them. The sound wet.

“Leonard-” the double voice returned before Spock crumbled to the ground. A dozen people shouted and darted towards the Vulcan.

M'Benga rushed to his side, waving off hands reaching for him.

“Don't! We don't know how additional contact will affect his touch-telepathy.”

While the collective attention of the sickbay stall was turned to the ground, McCoy's hands stayed on his patient.

“He's going into shock,” someone said.

“We need to get the rest of his skin back on. Now. We've had his nervous system exposed too long-”

“No, Spock's going into neural collapse.”

“Damn! Get that second biobed cleared off. I want him close enough to keep working.”

“He couldn't be-”

“Cygnus is still breathing; Spock's still doing his job. Get him over there! Keep him comfortable, touch him as little as possible. I want quiet so he can concentrate.”

The surgical suite fell silent as they worked. McCoy focused on getting the muscles built up as much as he could. Testing new neural connections fell to the wayside. Cygnus had stated his priorities often enough. While his princess might find his face attractive, he needed his hands to care for his children, to hold his tools.

“You might end up looking like a botox addict by the time I'm done,” McCoy grumbled. “But I'm going to get this done.”

For all his haste, he kept one eye glued onto the sculpture, calling on whatever artistic skill he might have. Sweat poured down his face, pooling around the edge of the respirator and dripping down his collar in an uncomfortable river.  All hands too busy with their patient, and doctor too focused to think to call for a sponge.

“Skin. Hurry.”

Even with the “model” Spock had come up with, McCoy wasn't about to attempt a mold growth with this area. The hands, well, they needed to be strong and flexible. Faces, for all the facial expressions and seeming mobility, only flex and move in predictable patterns.

McCoy laid out the puzzle pieces, tacking sheets together here and there before stretching, pressing, and sealing everything away permanently.

“Shouldn't we test his facial nerves?” someone asked behind him.

“No.” _No time._ “Dermal regenerator. Help me close up everything. Last chance to look for open edges, everyone. I want tricorders up and active.”

A chorus of beeps followed his orders.

He felt cold glares on the back of his neck, but to hell with them. He was the cold, heartless CMO. They wouldn't notice the way his hands gentled over the stretch of skin over the new nasal ridge, couldn't see how his eyes watered as he thought about the way one charred, skeletal finger had grazed, just there, thinking about the mother of his children.

No. He knew that Cyg had enough muscle control to swallow, enough to speak and blink. Anything more than that was icing on the cake right now.

Alarms started going off above him, alerting him to just how close he was cutting it.

“Oxygen absorption rate dropping, Doctor.”

“I'm seeing abnormal electrical activity-”

“There's a flare of-”

“Damnit all to hell,” McCoy growled.

He reached for the hypospray, the last resort one, after a glance over at the scanner readout over Spock's bed.

“All sealed?”

He barely waited for the chorus of “Aye, sir” to die before he planted the instrument firmly against Cygnus' throat.

For ten, painful seconds, the room went silent.

Clear, yellow eyes flared open a moment before the screaming began.


	25. Chapter 25

“Hey, Doc. How's the surgery treating ya?”

Whatever Jim saw in his bloodshot eyes made him cringe. He still took the seat on the far side of his desk.

“Bones, come on, you gotta talk to me. Even Spock's worried about ya.”

“If you got that greenblooded computer to admit to being 'worried' about anyone, I'll eat my left shoe.”

The past two days he'd been glued to his patient's side. The bare catnaps he allowed himself were on the next biobed over, with an ear open to the slightest blip from the computers monitoring his systems.

After the end of the surgery, when he'd been forced to awaken Cygnus to a realm of shiny new nerve endings, just waiting to tell him how much it bloody well hurt to be burned alive, McCoy kept the both of them on a scalpel’s edge between coma and total alertness.

According to Selek's findings, deadening the pain now with drugs would hamper the healing process – citing that damn water bison research.

Considering how _well_ everything had gone to hell, just as Selek had anticipated, he didn't dare chance it.

So, whenever the computer said Cyg's brain was hiccuping from sensory input, he pulled the poor guy out of the coma and gave him a little pain-jumpstart. Like shocking a defibrillating heart back into the proper rhythm.

“At least you're sitting down in your office?”

McCoy rotated the screen so the young captain could see that, in fact, he was monitoring his patient, not writing reports or catching up on the summer Olympics recordings that just came in from back home.

Jim cringed a little.

“Bones... you've got to take a break. What if there's an emergency? You look like you've been run over by a train.”

“I wish I was run over by a train. At least then I'd be out of my misery.” The sympathetic eye his captain gave him dragged out an annoyed puff of air. “Guess you read the reports, huh?”

“Spock's and M'Benga's, since yours is still in draft form on that computer.”

“Yeah, well, mine's not finished yet.”

“Just reading Spock's gave me nightmares. Is it true he really ah... shouted, for hours?”

“And clawed off a good bit of skin in the process. Should have guessed that might have happened. But we had spare and reattached.”

McCoy rubbed his tricep, where one particularly nasty bruise was just getting to the purple stage. Cyg's thrashing left others, but the short sleeves of his surgical uniform showed this set off rather well.

“How long will you keep him under?”

“That, I'm not quite sure about. Selek didn't have much information on that front, and I've got little from Tisxk about that bison; apparently they don't do major surgery on them, just the usual fertility-related stuff that you see on farms. So, no extensive studies with medically induced comas.”

McCoy sighed and scrubbed his fingers through his admittedly greasy hair. He needed a shower. And proper sleep in a real bed. And a drink. Oh god did he need a proper drink.

“His body is used to intravenous fluid and nutrition. If I can, I'd keep him under until he's all healed up and ready to start physical therapy.”

“That can't be good for atrophied muscles, though.”

McCoy sighed. Jim had the right of it. _Hell, he's been in here for major stuff often enough. He knows the drill_.

“Look, Bones. I know this is more your prevue than mine, but this isn't a social call.”

McCoy glared up at his friend – no, his captain, by the look in his bright blue eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I'm putting you on leave.”

“WHAT?”

Jim hopped back as McCoy nearly lunged over his desk at him.

“Twenty-four hours. That's all I'm asking. Telling. You haven't gotten proper rest since all this started up, and now it's in emergency levels-”

“That's why I'm needed right here!”

“No. He's not at emergency levels. You are. You're a wreck, Bones. Cygnus' in stasis right now, realistically. M'Benga and the others have your research. Spock's offered to be on call and ready to assist the whole day. You, my friend, are banned from the sickbay, barring personal injury, of course, until this time tomorrow.

“You need sleep. Real sleep. And mental rest.”

Jim tossed a PADD onto the table between them. McCoy glanced down, seeing the official orders ready and waiting to go to the Fleet. On his permanent record.

“You wouldn't.”

“Haven't, yet, but if I need to, it's ready. Keep it. It'll give you some inspiration. Oh, the other file on there is a list of the rec activities until tomorrow. I'm doing a little open sparring session, there's a basket weaving class, a knitting class, and three different movies, all recent releases from back home. I'm not _requiring_ you attend at least one of these non-work related activities, but I'm strongly suggesting it.”

“How about a walk outside the airlock. Would that count?”

Jim shrugged and grinned. “If you want some weightless time, give Scotty a shout. I'm sure he'll suit ya up. Just remember to comm the bridge and let us know to drop out of warp, will ya? Don't wanna leave my CMO in the stardust.”

McCoy groaned. “You know that I, of all people, am _not_ going out into zero-g for shits'n'giggles.”

“Yeah, I know. Have fun Bones! I expect you out of this office in five minutes.”

With a parting wave, Jim disappeared. Just before an empty glass shattered against the door.

Six minutes later, two burly folks in security red entered his office without so much as a courtesy blip from the computer.

Nine minutes, and a new black eye, later, he was outside the sickbay, pounding on the door, screaming at the top of his lungs, and being stared at by the junior officers attempting to avoid him as they wandered down the hallway.

The minute he gave up and turned away, the door opened just enough for Jim's PADD to follow him out the door.

“Basket weaving my foot,” McCoy grumbled as he picked up the PADD.

The long, hot shower, a carb-filled meal, and a nap actually sounded reasonable.

By the time he made himself somewhat presentable and got down to the mess hall for some grub, he was even looking forward to the prospect of a movie.

Anything other than the box office big hitters came in somewhat infrequently, since Federation News and research data held priority as far as subspace bandwidth. The romantic comedy, from the looks of it another “modern recreation” of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, with an Andorian and Vulcan as the main love interests, was a little too far fetched, even for his sleep deprived brain. Aaaand... he scrolled past the epically long description of how “epically amazing” the Vlad the Impaler flick was... the last movie was.... He groaned. An animated kids movie. He wasn't even going to _try_ to figure out what the dancing balloons thing was about.

But, if it was that, or basket weaving, at least he could nap in the darkened rec room while everyone was paying attention to the projector.

He dumped his empty food tray when he realized that the kid's flick was going to play first and hurried to join the surprisingly large crowd. Cheerful music, happy pastel colors, and extreme exhaustion led right into the nap he anticipated.

A nap which was unceremoniously interrupted by someone poking him in the arm.

“Hmm?”

“Doctor McCoy, the comm's going off for you.”

“Been going off for the past five minutes.”

McCoy blinked, waking up enough to finally realize the entire rec room was staring at him. Someone'd even paused the projection.

“Ah... sorry. Lemme get that.” McCoy scooted out of his aisle hit the comm at the back of the room. All too aware of the thirty-odd officers staring at him. “McCoy here.”

“It's time, Leonard.”

McCoy blinked at Uhura's cryptic message.

“Time for what?”

She sighed in exasperation. “There's pipping, Leonard. You're needed up in the sickbay.”

“Jim actually gonna let me in?”

“He's already nearly wetting himself. Get up here, would you?”

He closed the comm and passed an apologetic glance to the rest of the folks who were actually interested in watching the godawful kid's movie.

“How many,” he asked, the moment the sickbay doors opened.

“Just one,” Nurse Chapel answered.

“One of the special cases?” McCoy asked while as he scrubbed his hands and she brought over the usual scrubs and a not-so-usual face mask. McCoy passed a grateful thought to the father finally having enough skin to take the cleanroom-level sanitation down to the usual level of complicated, live-threatening surgery, rather than biohazard status. The paper half-mask, with the strings tucked behind his ears, felt _wonderful_. At least, compared to five pounds of air filters leaning against his nose.

“It's the one with the more extensive cracking. It's a bit early, isn't it?”

“It happens, sometimes. Well, it did with the chickens back home. If they were a little warm and their metabolism speeds up. And... M'Benga and I have been talking about the possibility that the dermal regenerator might've sped those two up a little too.”

“But there's only one showing signs.”

“So far.”

“Bones! Come here!”

“Coming, dear,” he shouted with a sarcastic lilt. He exchanged a grin with his head nurse and headed for Cygnus' curtained area.  “Anyone actually steering the ship?” McCoy asked, after he passed a look around the cramped space.

Jim grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, Leonard,” Uhura said.  “I think I kinda freaked when I saw the egg wiggle and I... kinda called everyone.”

“It's alright, Nyota. I know everyone's anxious.”

Scotty got up with a grunt from behind a new bit of tech. “Figured we'd need a bigger incubator for the wee 'uns. Fan 'ere fur forced warm air, wee clips to hold down the papers, a water bottle fur-”

McCoy rubbed the paper-covered bridge of his nose.

“They're eggs, not hamsters. The fan, yes, that'll probably be useful, but get the water bottle and food bowls out of there, will ya? Before I wake Cygnus up and he sees that mess?”

“Right, sorry Doc.”

Jim and Uhura ducked out of the way to give Scotty space to undo his modifications.

“What tools will we need, Doctor?”

“Should I go help boil water?”

McCoy playfully punched the captain in the shoulder with his elbow.

“Find me something to clear the fluid from their nares, Chapel. Smallest clamps you've got, towels, saline....” He rambled on, listing items he'd been thinking about for a couple weeks now, and hadn't been expecting to need for little a while yet.

McCoy lifted the lid on the incubator, realizing in a moment if he kept it open to assist the hatching process, he might be bringing the temperature down too far for the rest of them.

“Damn. Scotty?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Go get a cutter for that glass of yours. I'm going to take that incubator you made and turn it into a hatcher. I'll need four holes, two for my hands and two for an assistant, on the other side. Nyota? Think you can help him find some sterile sheeting to set up a curtain so we can minimize the drafts?”

“I know just the thing.”

The two of them disappeared, leaving a bouncing Jim on the far side of the incubator and Spock hovering around Cygnus' bed.

“When do you intend on awakening your patient?”

Jim looked up at Spock's question. “You can't be thinking about waking him up! You said it yourself, he's totally without painkillers! He's going to be in agony!”

“I know, Jim. But he specifically said he wanted to be awakened for their hatching.” A certain glumness clouded the happy anticipation that bubbled in his veins. “I think we'll wait until the last minute, though. We'll see how coherent he is for the first one. If he's in too much pain, I'll put him back under until they're all hatched and he can meet the whole group.”

“A prudent decision.”

“Yeah. Lemme go see if Scotty needs any help with that cutter.”

Jim disappeared, leaving the two science officers in relative quiet. McCoy too engrossed in his tricorder readings to pay much attention to anything else.

“I will offer whatever assistance is necessary,” Spock spoke into the silence.

“Thanks. I think I've got enough hands in the pot as it is.”

The Vulcan cleared his throat. “I believe I have some talents that others are incapable of.”

McCoy blinked for a moment, realization settling in as to what the First Officer offered. “Last time you nearly went into synaptic collapse yourself.”

“The chance of cascade failure is nearly nil at this point in his recovery. I do not expect the sensation to be a pleasant one, but the expected duration is short, and it will allow... are you crying, Doctor?”

“Nope. Not at all. Just something in my eye. Arg, damnit!” McCoy huffed in frustration when he realized he'd just wiped said incriminating evidence with his sterile gloves. “Nurse! New gloves please!”

A fresh set of gloves got tucked over his hands and his friends puttering in and out to get everything ready.

“Get a nap in at least?” Jim asked, as he helped wheel the modified incubator back in.

“Couple minutes during the opening of _Balloons Galore._ You'll probably get notices of some death threats on that one.”

“Bah. Once folks figure out it's 'cause of the eggs, you'll be fine. Especially when the folks running the betting pool figure start spreading the good news.”

“Aye!” Scott piped in with a grin. “I've got a few credits on an early hatch. Not _quite_ this early, mind ye, but I think it'll count if they take a wee bit.”

“God, what won't they bet on,” McCoy grumbled.

“I've got ten credits on all girls,” Jim admitted with a chuckle.

“Don't tell me you've joined this insanity too, Mr. Spock.”

“No, I have not. I have seen the medical scans. It would be dishonorable to bet, when I know the outcome.”

“Ditto for me,” Uhura added. “But I did put a chip into the pot, that they'll all hatch safe and sound.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Easy to bet on a sure thing.”

“Alright, hatching incubator is all warmed up and ready to go.”

McCoy grinned. “Excellent.”

With more help than room for it, he transferred the pipping egg to the new box. Chapel ready on the opposite side with all the tools neatly organized on a tray.

“So... do ya just pop her out of the egg?” Jim asked, leaning over the clear glass to get a better look at the tiny hole in the shell.

“Nope, that might hurt the wee one.”

“Did the chicken thing as a kid to, Scotty?”

“Naw, homing pigeons. If ye break the shell before they're ready, they can bleed out. Or the shell can hurt 'em.”

“What, did everyone do this as a kid except for me?”

“Guess so, Jim,” Uhura said with a grin. “We had geese in school. Smarter than chickens. And they're sooo cute and fluffy! Ya know, once they dry out.”

“How about you, Spock?”

“Hatching eggs was not a requirement in my schooling.”

“Good! See? I'm not completely alone.”

“But I did attend a research facility that-”

Jim's groan cut him off before he got too much farther down that train of thought.

After all the rushing, and the weeks of waiting, continued patience was a bit more than the captain was ready for; he disappeared back to the bridge at the first call from Sulu. Scotty stayed for a little while longer, but soon enough, he too grew tired of staring at an unmoving egg for hours on end.

“Is she doing alright?” Uhura asked, as even her eyelids grew heavy.

McCoy pulled the tricorder out again for the umpteenth time. The first little break in the shell had been on the opposite side of all the work, in the thin parts, so he _really_ didn't want to force the matter until he was certain she was ready.

“Stress hormones normal, blood oxygen saturation looks good. Organ development shows she's just about ready to come out. Maybe waiting for the others to start? Or there could be a long refractory period between hatching stages in Cyg's people.”

“Perhaps there is a ritual that is needed that we are unaware of?” Spock suggested.

McCoy sighed. “You may be right. Nurse? Care to administer the drugs needed to wake him up? Just say the word when you're ready, Mr. Spock.”

The First Officer moved into position, his hands taking their usual places on Cygnus' long face. After the ritualistic words and a moment of silence, the Vulcan nodded. Nurse Chapel pressed a hypo to Cygnus' neck and they waited with eyes glued onto the biobed's readout.

“I am awake,” Cygnus/Spock said after a few minutes. “I take it something went wrong.”

“Not quite, my friend. We thought it might take a while for you to heal. What we weren't anticipating, was your little ones deciding they didn't want to wait any longer to meet you.”

Cyg's pale eyes flickered open.

“They're hatching?”

“Yes. One started a little over two hours ago, but we haven't seen any activity since the first pip. With Mr. Spock reigning in the pain, we were hoping you could assist us.”

A long, drawn out sigh settled over both of their shoulders.

“Get me upright,” Cygnus/Spock ordered. “The pain from that much motion might be more than I can block.” They sighed again. “Do what you can. I'll handle the rest.”

_Yup. Seriously creepy hearing them talk to one another, with both voices, at the same time._

“Nyota? Christine? Think you can handle him?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

With a helpful hand on each side, and Spock hovering behind him with a hand still on either side of his face, they propped his limp body up so that he could look into the incubators.

“Why can't I move? It is more effective to block all nervous communication, rather than attempting to only block pain sensations. I am minimizing the chance of synaptic collapse.”

“We'll be your hands, Cyg. Just tell us what to do.”

McCoy brought the incubator with the single egg closer.

“Just the single pip?”

“Mmhm. All the readings show she's doing good, just waiting.”

An odd wash of asymmetrical emotions played first over Cygnus' face, echoed, oddly enough, more clearly in Spock's.

“The shell needs to be moistened. Just clean water. Avoid the area that the child is pipping in. Do you remember the song I taught you last, Nyota?” they asked.

“The one with the tune that goes,” she whistled some high, complicated set of twilling notes. Chapel brought over a cup of distilled water, the same temperature as the incubator, and slipped a sponge on a stick into his hands for him to get to work.

“Yes. That one. Sing it, please.”

Her voice warbled a bit, as she switched from whistling, to humming, then outright singing. Cygnus sagged against the supporting hands, his bass voice droning along several octaves below in accompaniment. Poor Spock following along, not quite sitting at baritone or tenor.

As the tone of the song wound on, a verse repeating a few times, McCoy felt an answering vibration in the delicate shell under his gloved hands.

He stared in amazement as the gentle warbling song urged the little one into action. The little hole quickly leading to a roughly circular seam. Pauses in the song seemingly timed just to let the little one rest, before they continued on.

As shards separated, McCoy gently teased them loose until he revealed a wet, exhausted little tangle. Eyes so pale yellow they barely had any color blinked up at him. Disproportionately huge in the tiny face.

“That's it, my love,” Cygnus/Spock whispered. He leaned forward until the women had to catch him. “Can I... can I touch?”

McCoy grinned. “Of course. It'll be up to Spock to see if you'll be able to feel her though.”

With help, he reached under the curtain, through the holes Scotty cut, and cradled his wet first born. The long, newly constructed fingers flexed in an uneven bowl, dwarfing the tiny creature.

“That is our first song,” Cygnus/Spock told no one in particular. “I sang it to them their first day, nearly every day. My father sang it to me, they will sing it to their own hatchlings, in time. You said 'she,' Doctor McCoy?”

“Yup. You're first born is a girl.”

“My daughter.” A thumb traced a cheek, drawing out a tired, contented coo. “I want to stay... to be awake for the rest, but I find I am enervated.”

“Sounds like a Spock word,” Uhura commented with a chuckle. They hummed in agreement.

“I wish to attempt... opening up. I will control Cygnus' movements, to prevent harm to the child. McCoy, please be prepared to administer the drugs necessary quickly.”

“Are you sure, Cyg? We can just put you under.”

“No. I need to touch her. So many rituals I can't do... yet. But at least, I can hold her as she falls asleep the first time.”

“Cyg,” Uhura squeezed his forearm. “The others. Do you want us to wake you, like this?”

Cygnus' eyes closed for a long time. “Cygnus does not fear the pain awaiting for him, but Spock is uncertain about his ability to do another meld like this without extensive meditation. You know the song. So does Spock. Just... wake me when they're all hatched. Regardless. Please.”

“Alright. Give me a second to get the hypo.”

McCoy slipped out of the incubator, snagged the waiting hypo, and nodded to Spock.

It only took a moment. One instant Cygnus sitting up, coherent and calm. The next, teeth bared, body twisting and flexing, but from the elbows down ramrod still; shackled by the Vulcan's iron will.

Cygnus' forehead slammed down against the glass of the incubator. His bit down on a whimper of pain.

Uhura started singing again; the tune a bit haunting with only her voice to carry it. The little child cradled in Cygnus' hands squirmed and nestled, finally yawning and closing those eerie pale eyes in sleep.

“Now, please, Leonard. I... arg.”

McCoy lunged forward with the medication. Cygnus flinched as he pressed the button. Sighed, and sagged, as it took effect.

“Thank you, my friends.”

The child barely roused as McCoy carefully slipped the infant away from her father's grasp. The others tugged him back into place on the bed while he tried to settle her close enough to the heating element to gently dry what was certain to be some seriously downy feathers.

“So, what do we do now, Leonard? Do I sing until they all hatch?”

McCoy grinned. “With fifteen to go? Naw, I'd wait until we see the next one pipping. At least now we know what to do. How're ya feeling hobgoblin?”

Spock glared at the doctor as he ran a tricorder in a sweep encompassing all the non-humans in the room.

“I am acceptable.”

“Considering what you, or Cyg, said-”

“I intend on returning to my room to meditate.”

“Good. I'll give you a call if we need to wake him up again.”

Spock opened his mouth to add something, thought better of it, and left without another word.

“Things looking up, you'd say?”

“Not exactly sure, Nyota. But at least now he's really got something to fight for. And I can't tell you how often that'll make the difference.”


	26. Chapter 26

The couple days were awash in anticipation as the first hatchling was quickly joined by the second – the other one that'd received the special treatments for the cracking – and a few hopeful shifts as the rest of the eggs readied themselves. It seemed the whole crew found some excuse to “drop by,” as well as Nyota and Spock peeking in regularly to see if they were needed.

McCoy hadn't necessarily wanted to make a big thing out of it, but news spread like wildfire and everyone wanted to meet the little puffballs. Without Cyg awake and alert to give permission, McCoy sent the majority of the well-wishers off. Good natured grumbling aside, it was getting to be a tad ridiculous.

Thankfully, he was given a reprieve of sorts when Jim found another potential planet.

True to his earlier promise, the doctor told his captain to shove it, in the politest terms possible, and keep his landing parties to himself.

Even Spock, usually the voice of reason and following regulations, told Jim that he intended to remain in sickbay. In case he was needed, of course.

“I think it's the puffballs,” Nyota confessed to McCoy while Spock made use of his office to privately confer with Jim over the computer. “I haven't see him gush so much since the tribble incident.”

McCoy chuckled. “I'm not going to disagree with you, but not in spitting distance of him. I do not envy the poor bastard who tries to take his daughter to prom some day.”

In truth,  _ McCoy _ hadn't really been the one to send visitors away; it'd mostly been Spock's scary Vulcan glower. Heck, the man hadn't even put down the first-hatched when he went to answer Jim's comm, just rucked her up against his shoulder and told McCoy he'd be making use of his office.

“Yeeeah.” Nyota grinned and tickled the tummy of the little boy she'd lifted out of the incubator minutes before. “That evening, when and if it happens, will probably end in a nerve pinch. Maybe incarceration. Possibly crying. Not necessarily from the would-be prom queen, either.”

McCoy tapped his PADD and contemplated all of curiosities of multi-species genetics and behavioral patterns. “M'Benga wondering about it earlier. Has a theory that Spock might've gotten a dose of parental instincts the last meld with Cygnus. Again, another thing I'm not bringing up with him. If he wants to come and help babysit, I'm not arguing.”

“It's not like they're that difficult!”

McCoy snorted. “Wait until they're all hatched. Right now, what with only two, and them staying awake for a couple minutes at a time between two-to-three hour long sleep cycles? No problem. I can tell you from  _ experience _ , just one toddler keeping ya up at night can be hell after a month or two. Hell, what'm I sayin'? Give it a couple days.”

“Have you started feeding them yet?”

He shook his head. “No, the tricorder's still reading a yoke on the oldest, so I'm not going to wake Cyg up for it. Maybe later tonight or tomorrow. I'd hoped they'd all be out before I had to worry about it.”

Like many egg-bearing species back home, these guys sucked the last of the albumen into their body cavity during the hatching process. Unlike the chickens he'd raised as a kid, Cyg's tykes had enough in them to last several days, not just one or two. Another blessing of biology working in his favor. And considering how much growth he'd seen in them already – Number One growing a full centimeter in length already – the proteins in their eggs must be much more nutritious. Or their biology prepared to make the best use of it.

McCoy's office door opened with a whoosh, Spock stomping out... as much as that feline-descended creature ever could.

“It seems I am required on this landing party,” he declared.

“Jim think's it's a good prospect?”

“There is radio signal, evidence of advanced technology, and nuclear radiation close to the polls. Considering Cygnus' previous statements about the space program being a covert one, Jim intends to attempt contact the governments privately.”

McCoy looked up at the Vulcan, studying the tense set of his shoulders, the slight furrow in his brow, and the long, expressive fingers cupped against the downy pinkish-white fluff of Number One.

“If ya want, I can write ya a doctor's note.”

Spock gave him a perplexed stare.

“And excuse not to go in to work,” Uhura explained for him.

Number One squirmed. “Hm? Oh, of course.” Spock said, absentmindedly. When McCoy moved to get up and grab the comm to do just that, Spock waved him back down and simply passed him the little girl. “My apologies. I will return when my duties are complete.”

McCoy exchanged a confused, blinking glance with the communication's officer after he left.

“What was that about? That seemed a bit out of character.”

“Do you think... you know, with the touch-telepathy?” McCoy held the little girl aloft, trying to gauge just how intelligent those eyes seemed already.

“It's possible. I don't know much about Vulcan children. Maybe that's a normal way to communicate with them? Before they have spoken language?”

“ Makes sense. Biologically speaking. Hell, I'd been wondering how telepathy develops, touch or otherwise, in a sentient race that can  _ talk _ anyway. It's damn expensive, metabolically, and, well, weird. Not bad weird; it just stands out. In the grand scheme of things. Ya got Trill, who are really only internally telepathic, Betazoids, Vulcans, Romulans – who might as well be Vulcans, as far as my profession is concerned – and who else?”

“Those are the only Federation planets I know with it.”

“Exactly. But, if it means a greater chance of survival for the next generation, I guess I can get behind it. What'd ya say, kiddo?” She let out a yawn too massive for her tiny mouth. “My sentiments exactly. Back ya go. Probably a bit chill anyway, weren't ya? Mean ol' Vulcan with his low body temp.”

He ended up tucking both of his current charges away, since the boy in Uhura's arms was already fast asleep.

McCoy had shit all for toys – a project Scotty was working on, of course – so he'd been stuck attempting Uhura's whistles, talking, cuddling, and generally flying by the seat of his pants, as far as stimulating them went.

The one thing he did do, though, every time they woke up, even if it was only for a minute or two, was tuck them up against Cygnus' side, or in the curve of his palm or the crook of his neck. Uhura sang Cygnus' song for them, so they'd know him once he woke up for good, but McCoy really didn't want them only imprinting on a bunch of humans.

“Hopefully this is the right planet this time, hm?”

“Yeah. I'll admit, I'm a bit worried about synthesizing the right food for them. Keeping Cyg on nutrient plasma has been a delicate balancing act. I don't want it to get to the same point with the little ones.”

“I'm sure we'll figure something out. Worse comes to worse, we have food cubes.”

McCoy grunted. Nutritious, maybe, but that was going to cause some seriously interesting clean ups that he had  _ no doubt whatsoever _ would be his job.

“That reminds me, how are the nurses doing with those diaper experiments?”

He chuckled. “Kind of a mess. The fluff gets all encrusted and then we have to do bath time and no one likes that. Hate to admit it, but Scotty's idea about having interchangeable paper in the incubator seems to be the best idea for now. Maybe Cyg has an answer for it.”

Nyota grinned. “Poor guy. He's going to be a bit overwhelmed when he wakes up to a couple armloads of kids. What'd he say, he had four nest mates?”

“You're the one who recorded it,” the doctor said after a moment's contemplation. “But that sounds right.”

“And his dad a 'champion hatcher.' Not sure he's really going to be ready for sixteen.”

“Don't count them before they hatch,” He grinned. “But it is looking fairly good so far. I wonder what's causing such a low hatch rate.”

Nyota shrugged. “Maybe it's how clean you keep everything in here.”

“Thanks, I suppose. ”

“No problem.” She plopped down in the chair next to him. “Hopefully Cyg won't mind if we all pitch in to help. Dunno about your nurses, but the communications crew has been practicing Cyg's native language in hopes of currying favor for babysitting duties.”

“ Ha! Don't think we've been going  _ quite _ to that extreme, but I'm sure they're ready and raring to hop in. Only Spock's lovely visage has kept most of the dogs at bay so far. Hell, who'm I kidding, eh? Remind me to go over assigning some crew with Jim for twenty-four hour watch with the kids once he gets back. If it was just one or two, we'd be able to work it out between us, but realistically? Once Cyg's up, my mind needs to be on him, not them. And I don't doubt his mind's gonna be on them, not on recovery and PT.”

After a few hours without word from the landing party, McCoy finally buckled down and commed up to the bridge to figure out what the good word was.

One of the communications crew he only barely recognized by voice replied with the right kind of vagary that told the doctor that Jim'd found himself in trouble. Again.

“Hey Nyota? Mind busting your underling's butt and getting me some real intel?”

She chuckled and set down the tablet she'd reading aloud from – theoretically children's stories translated into their language. “I'll go get the readings for myself. Knowing Beta shift, they're probably biting their nails already.”

The kids settled quickly, without Nyota whistling to them, and decided on a simultaneous nap. Leaving McCoy the usual monstrous load of work that came with his station.

Between updates to Chekov and Cygnus' records, sending off the usual reports to Starfleet Medical, drafting the Thank Yous to the multitude of doctors – and one helpful Ambassador – who'd inputted their data for his surgery, the lone hopeful scan of his own liver to see if he could grab something  _ useful _ on the rocks, he quickly lost himself, only coming up when the motion sensor Scotty put on the incubator bleeped it's now familiar warning.

He rubbed his face, snagged a passing nurse, asked him to grab a glass of orange juice, and headed off to assist the hatching.

The little ones were up, bouncing little balls of fluff, watching while he scrubbed and wheeled the cart over.

“Someone get Uhura on the comm, hm?”

He had the whole moistening and positioning bit down pat at this point. Under the heat lamp, but away from the fans, seemed to be the trick, along with the occasional jostle or rotation to hurry them along if they seemed to be taking too long and potentially having issues.

This one, however,  _ already _ had a massive split.

“She sends her regrets-”

“ _ Regrets? _ ”  McCoy nearly shrieked before he checked himself. “What in tarnation is happening up there!”

“The line went dead just wh-”

A massive shake rocked the ship, tumbling several of the eggs loose and knocked the currently active egg right into his knuckle, collapsing a weak bit of the shell in onto the poor creature.

Any recrimination or curses were lost, quickly, as his adrenaline spiked and he had to salvage the situation. Without expert voices calling the chick to push from the inside, and untold hemorrhaging taking place just a few millimeters away, McCoy took a chance and started peeling back the shards as carefully, and quickly, as he could manage.

He didn't have time to spare wondering who the hell was firing on them, why the comm lines went down, or if Scotty had it all under control until the last of the micro tears in the albumen had been cauterized and a weak, exhausted lump of avian curled up in his hands.

“Is he going to be okay, doctor?”

“ Damn well hope so. Anyone got some answers yet? 'Cause I'm about to go take a few inoculations up and administer them. The  _ old fashioned  _ way.”

The rest of the kids were squeaking for attention as he teased the wet clumps of fluff apart for the blower to get Number Three dried up.

Within minutes the little one's eyes drifted closed and a nurse popped up with a scanner to insure he'd simply fallen asleep. A quick smile and nod reassured the doctor. He cupped the little boy in his palms, lifted him from the hatching incubator and set him in the other, where his more active siblings instantly wiggled over and plopped on top of his damp self.

Number Three had just enough energy for an indignant squeak and a glare before falling back asleep, but Number One and Two were refreshed from their naps and too excited to calm down.

“Come here, you two.” McCoy scooped them both up. “He needs sleep. You'll just have to keep me company while I find out what in tarnation they're up to up there.”

For the first time in three days, the two little ones weren't passive passengers; it took McCoy a few minutes of rushing from one sparking terminal to the next to realize they were snicked firmly onto his uniform.

He tried to flip them from one forearm to the other – of course he picked them up with his dominant arm! - only to find tiny, apparently strong, little digits at the end of their puffball excuses for arms. McCoy blew gently into the downy feathers until he revealed a bare thumb and pair of fingers on each hand, the others apparently encased in soft skin and feathers, each grasping the pale blue fabric of his surgical scrub as if their lives depended on it.

“Interesting that ya start this up now... reaction to my stress level, or you've just got old enough to give it a try?”

With vague recollections of opossums back home, and no way to pry them off without causing major damage or just plain taking too long, he accepted his new barnacles and called for a nurse to act as his typing hand and get the blasted communications systems online again.

Not-so-surprisingly the ship did  _ not _ stop shaking just because he yelled at it to. Nor did it stop when he kicked in a console panel, or when he scared off a couple young ensigns who didn't have the brains to understand that space is a walking death trap waiting to happen. If he  _ let _ it, that is.

When Nyota finally called to let them know a rescue party was on the way down, McCoy had just about had it.

“Have we tried, oh, I don't know, just beaming them up off the fucking planet?”

“We tried.”

“...Should I even ask what came up?”

“The phasors and communicators made it back in one piece. Well, more than one piece, since everyone had a set but-”

“Brilliant. Just... damnit. Just tell me they're alive somewhere so I'll have the visceral enjoyment of killing them myself?”

“Radiation's making the transporter signal a wee bit wonky,” Scotty's voice burbled from some distance behind Uhura. So, on the bridge, at least, if not by her side. “I'm thinking sending a shuttle might be the best bet at this point.”

“Gee, you think?”

“Leonard....”

“I know, I know.” McCoy let out a huff of air. “Just get those two imbeciles back in one piece, would you? You know how I hate paperwork. Requisitioning a new captain and first officer this far into the mission will be a pain in my keister.”

“No problem there, lad. I'm in complete agreement.”

“Especially seeing as you'd be doing the signing of said paperwork,” Nyota said, a teasing lilt to her voice for the third-in-command.

“Tell me we've at least stopped rocking. I had to stick foam insulation between the eggs to keep them banging into each other.”

“Oh aye, that's part of the problem. Moved out of the range of the planet's defenses and now we can't get a lock on the lads.”

“Wonderful. Look, I've got wounded coming in. Uhura, if you can't get down here to help with the kids, send someone who can get that song done, would you? Nearly lost the last one.”

A telling bit of silence meant she probably had her hand over the mic so she could confer with the commander.

“I'll be down in a minute.”

“No rush,” McCoy grumbled. Only half joking.

Number One and Two showed no signs of releasing his shirt-front, so he had to balance the two of them and his tricorder while scanning incoming wounded from across the ship.

Nothing major, thankfully, just bumps and bruises from falls. A couple fractures from engineering, of course.

Doctors, nurses and lab techs rolled in without being ordered. The routine of the ship's usual emergency care altering only to accommodate his new role as triage nurse.

A couple folks offered to take the chicks off of his hands, but the more hustle and bustle around them, the tighter those little fingers gripped.

They silently watched with wide eyes as crewmen were hurried in and out. Their slight weight barely distinguishable from his clothes; McCoy fisted a handful of his own shirtfront to keep himself from thoughtlessly reaching out with his arm and dropping them.

“Ack!” McCoy spun at Nyota's distressed squawk. “Why do you have them out!”

“It's this or they're flopping over Number Three.”

“Let me take them at least-”

“Only if they'll let you.”

Her patient fingers gently wedged Number Two loose, but the moment she cradled him to her shoulder he latched on again. She blinked and tried to pull him away, only to find her uniform coming up with him.

“Yeah. There's that issue too.”

Without her brother taking up half his arm, Number One wasn't quite so awkward to deal with, so he let her be at the crook of his elbow. After a bit, he was awkwardly leaning over a plasma burn patient with the best of them, trying his best to convince himself that he'd been keeping the kids sterile enough he didn't have to worry about covering them in scrubs.

A sharp shout from Nyota a couple hours in drew his attention.

“We've got another hatcher!”

“Great. Lovely. Youseff? Can you step in here?”

She plucked his tools without protest and swept in to take over.

Uhura was already singing in Cygnus' little fabric cubicle by the time McCoy scrubbed as much as he could reach.

“Let me get the-”

“Not enough time!” she quipped between stanzas.

He bit back a curse when he finally caught sight of the chipped shell disintegrating through her fingertips.

“Pause the song?” he suggested as he reached in to help moisten, and soften, the shell before it cut something important.

“Wish I could,” she said between stanzas. “Don't know how long she's been fussing while all this chaos's been going on.”

McCoy fretted at Uhura's side, feeling a tad useless as the more normal course of the hatching process took over.

But it wasn't normal.

At least, not like the first two.

Number One had been stressful until they got detailed instructions from Cyg, then everything went smooth. Two was about exciting as watching paint dry; he pipped a neat little circle around the narrow side of his egg, gave it a little crack, then a good shove and the thing opened up like an oyster to reveal the wriggling pearl within.

This one... was disorganized. Pipping here, then shaking a bit, repositioning, then poking a new hole a little to the left, right, above. No organized line, or even organized cluster. Small chunks of shell that flaked away, revealing the usual wet feathers within, then ignored in favor of poking yet more holes.

“Wait,” McCoy finally bid. The egg wriggled to a stop alongside Uhura's song.

He reached for the tricorder, fearing what he'd find. What unknown data – with no guarantee Cyg could decipher, even if he was awake – the medical scanner might reveal.

Stress hormones high – not unexpected, considering. BP and heart rate elevated. He read aloud without a thought, checking off one things after another. Oxygen saturation, organ functionality, albumen location....

Working from the outside in, until he saw the problem.

The little girl  _ couldn't _ wriggle in a straight line to get that seam she'd been genetically programmed to cut through. The most efficient seam for a little life to cut to remove herself from her support structure. Her protection from the world. Her little prison.

“See if you can get Number One, would you?” He murmured absently to Uhura.

“...what's wrong? The numbers sounded... well, not good, but similar to Number Two.”

“Yeah. Please? Take her?”

Number One wriggled and whimpered as Nyota pried her loose. Once she was given a spot next to her younger brother, she latched comfortably enough, dragging the collar of Uhura's uniform even lower with her weight.

“Leonard... what's wrong?”

“Get them out of the room. And call in M'Benga. Or Youseff. Anderson. Who ever's free.”

He silently turned the tricorder's readings over to the growing cluster around him. Others pulled out their own scanners, looking for better news. Turning the spinning wands against the others still sleeping in their shells and finding the same issue in several others. All the females. Over half of the males.

“What do we do?”

McCoy sighed and traced the ruptured shell before him with the pad of his thumb.

“We do the best we can. There might not be hope for this one, but get some of the lab techs on the others. I want options and I want them now.”

Within moments a surgical team flooded the small space.

Blood oxygenation rates dropped through the floor in the precious few moments they had.

McCoy cursed under his breath and pulled the little one from the incubator. Without better sterile space available, he set the half-shattered shell right on top of Cyg's cloth-covered stomach.

Laser scalpels appeared. More hands than space for them quickly snipped at the remaining calcium. The charred scent of a dentist's office filled the room as they gently released Number Four.

“Two CCs Tri-ox. Point four adrenaline. Let's get her heart going again.”

With her feathers wet and matted, they had trouble disentangling her limbs from their twisted, curled-in position. Each movement a minor heart-attack waiting on behalf of her doctors, the bare knowledge of the species a gaping hole filled with questions. The chief of which being, what happened to her bones?

Somehow, within the past week, while their shells had hardened and the calcium and residual radiation had scrambled a good portion of their scans, her bones had decalcified. The structure still there, but gone as soft and flexible as tendons.

When the adrenaline did little but spark the neurons, McCoy chanced a gentle massage of her ribcage.

Her body gave. Her organs offering as much resistance as her bones. Perhaps more, since the air in her lungs at least had pressure.

He swallowed down the taste of bile in his mouth and rolled his fingertips in a precise small circle, watching the offered tricorder.

“You've got it,” the nurse reassured, the moment the valves and his fingers found a good rhythm between them.

“Ideas, people. The connective tissue isn't going to be able to take this amount of pressure for long.”

Silence answered his order. Even from his own brain.

Even the injured crewmen on the other side of the curtain seemed to be holding their breath.

“I think I remember reading about this... somewhere,” someone whispered.

“Then get on the records and find it, damnit.”

“Yes sir.”

The doctor disappeared, cursed as he tripped over some unseen obstacle, and clambered on with a rough pounding of feet.

“How bad are the rest of them?” McCoy glared around him, when no one answered. “Come on. I need data, people. What the fuck am I looking at?”

“All of them, to some extent. It looks like the shells are leaching the bone away,” one doctor suggested into the quiet.

“Then why the fuck did One and Two not have this issue?” McCoy snapped. A kaleidoscope of responses tumbled out from all quarters of the room.

“They were both cracked.”

“Additional radiation exposure?”

“They all got a dose.”

“Slower rotations for those two....”

“Hot spot in the incubator?”

“Maybe that radiation rinse? Longer exposure to the cleaning agents?”

“Or less?”

“Genetic aberration?”

“One and two didn't show it.”

“All the females show extreme decalcification, while the males do not to the same extent... sex-linked chromosomal deficiency?”

“Number One is fine!”

“Someone call up the damn records,” McCoy ordered. “No, not on the Starfleet database, the Denobulan one. My office. Or ambassador Selek might've written about it. Something about it.”

“What about the cracks?”

“... what, the damage helped them?”

“We hit them with the dermal regenerator.”

“...no. It wasn't the dermal regenerator. Not for the shells. You used the bone knitter. Must have. I'm certain about it. Better at the calcium mesh.”

“So, what?  It hardened the shell?”

“That might be it, exactly.” Intuition turned on a bright red fucking neon sign pointed right at the regenerators. “Damnit. The shells are semi-porous. They've been leaching calcium molecules the whole time. On a radiation rich planet, they'd be rebuilding their cell structure as it was burned away. That's why One and Two have so much protein in their yokes. We sealed up their shells, so they weren't reabsorbing the calcium.”

“So... what does that mean?”

McCoy touched his spare forearm to his temple. “Hell if I know. I'm just shitting in the dark as it is. Anyone find anything yet?” he shouted into the quiet.

“Your computer's down!”

“Fucking wonderful. Call up Scotty. I don't care if he's still searching for the captain. I want him down here and that terminal working five minutes ago!”

Without research, or the time to get it, McCoy followed his instincts and called for an array of hypos and tools. He continued to massage her heart, keeping blood flowing, while he orchestrated his staff around him.

“Next time we're at space dock, I'm getting Jim to recruit a neonatal specialist.”

Someone chuckled sadly, while double checking his calculations for a body with a barely discernible mass. “Other than Cyg's case, when else would we need a specialist like that?”

McCoy sighed. He didn't need to agree out loud, they already knew. The 'Fleet may supply them, more than adequately, but at the end of the day they'd need to have a good reason to pay the salaries.

The doctor took a moment to synchronize the swirl of his left hand with his right before switching hands.

“Cramping?”

He frowned at M'Benga's question and flexed his fatigued knuckles. “No. Just not used to repetitive motion like this.”

“You can't do this indefinitely, you know,” M'Benga whispered.

“As long as I'm getting blood to her brain-”

“You're risking rupturing her internal organs. You're fracturing what little bone mass she possesses.”

“It's decalcified. It'll just flex and-” McCoy stopped at Doctor M'Benga's scowl. “I know. I'm still causing damage. But it gives us time.”

_ You know what needs doing. _

McCoy closed his eyes for a long moment, focusing on the perfect tempo of the roll of his fingers.

“Someone get me meds to wake up Cyg. He might not have long with his second daughter, but we can give him a little time.”

Without Spock there to guide the avian's return to consciousness, McCoy settled on the next-best solution: the heaviest doctors, nurses, and a couple redshirted security personnel pinning him down at shoulder, hip, elbow and knee to keep the thrashing at a minimum.

The moment Cygnus woke up enough to understand the shouting around him, he stilled. Muscled vibrated with random neural firing, his teeth clenched tight enough McCoy heard the creaking in his jaw, and every breath was a short pant as he fought against the pain.

“Something's gone wrong with her, Cyg,” McCoy explained. “Someone get him upright, would ya?”

A hasty bit of shuffling got several pillows under his twitching torso.

When he finally unclenched his eyes against the internal horrors of his own body, they fell onto the wet lump McCoy still massaged, still curled up against her father's stomach.

“Number One, Two, and Three hatched without a hitch,” McCoy quickly explained, promising himself he'd get around to mentioning the issues Three once everything else calmed down. “But this one didn't come out right. We've been working on her since, but every minute that passes her O2 levels are dropping, even with the tri-ox compound, and I'm afraid that....”

Cygnus' hand lifted. Even with the uncoordinated twitching of his fingers, the touch he laid against the back of McCoy's circling hand was gentle. Tender.

“Pipping was jumbled? Her body... soft?”

McCoy blew out a breath of relief.  _ He knows about it then.  _ “ Yes, that's exactly what happened. What do we do?”

Those long fingers clenched around his own, putting enough pressure on him to stop the chest compressions.

“We let her rest.”

Once again, silence filled the room. Cygnus' short, gasping breath and the computer's endless readout blips rang in the doctor's ears.

“Rest?” M'Benga exclaimed. “Alright, so we let her rest, but we need to ready the next treatment! What do we do?”

The last little breath slipped out from between McCoy's fingers. Without him holding the tempo, the tiny heart gave up within moments.

“There is no treatment, Doctor. When they pip like that, we know what awaits within. It is... easier... to let them... sleep in the egg.”

“Your people have no treatment? No cure?”

Those pain-filled yellow eyes turned on him. “None.”

And just like that, a room full of doctors, nurses, and passing volunteers had nothing to do but share in the grief of the little girl's passing.

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally caught up with cross posting from other websites to Ao3. Sorry it took so long, but I kept wanting to go back and reread/edit bits here and there. There are still issues, I'm sure, but I'll keep trying to catch them. And from here on out, it's Grade A Fresh story.
> 
> Next chapter is dedicated to the late, great Leonard Nimoy. (Even though Spock really doesn't factor in much in this chapter, sorry.) His was the first influence on my young life that one could be different, embrace being different, and still have purpose, comrades, and deal a positive influence on the future. I know that's a bit of a cold eulogy, but... let's just say I'm a tad disconnected at the moment while I consider existence without our most logical half-Vulcan. 
> 
> S'ti th'laktra

McCoy slipped his hand away, allowing Cygnus to stroke the limp form unimpeded.

“Do... do you want us to stay? To see the others?”

“Privacy,” Cygnus choked out. “For now.”

McCoy drew the privacy curtain closed behind him. A multitude of wet eyes and blotchy faces stared at him.

“Alright, people. We've got work to do. M'Benga, start organizing the reports. Freed and Markus, get the bone knitter. The fact it's not on the charger here means that there's a couple broken legs that haven't been seen to yet. Chapel, get a brigade started and get everything re-sterilized. Just because we had an emergency hit doesn't mean we can let these redshirts drip coolant everywhere. Where's Uhura gotten off to?”

“Your office, sir.”

“Right. Everyone, back to your posts. I want the main bay cleared out, cleaned out, and ready for the landing party whenever they get around to finding those idiots and bringing them back up here. I'll be in my office.”

McCoy locked his door behind him. Not exactly a common procedure, but-

“Stiff drink, or are you still on fruit juice?”

McCoy lifted an eyebrow at Uhura's offer. And her observation.

“Anyone else know I've been a teetotaler the past couple days?”

“Spock, maybe. No one else I know of.”

She'd turned the lights in his office down to about forty percent. Legs folded under her in his office chair, the quilt from his sofa tucked around her and the two chicks still clinging to her chest.

“Gonna guess they're asleep?”

She nodded.

He hadn't checked his liver function in almost twenty-eight hours, but at this point, he didn't care.

The clink of the glass-on-glass woke both of the chicks up, but characteristic of their behavior, so far, they were silent and watchful, rather than full of tears and mischief.

McCoy downed three fingers of bourbon, grimaced at the burn, and swept Number One into his arms with barely a protest from Uhura, and none from the chick. Her soft, downy fur whispered across his cheek as he cuddled her close. The odd, peppermint-on-liquorice scent of her filled his nose. Her usual delighted coo at being hoisted into the air seemed to hold a sad, inquisitive note. _Reading too much into the actions of a kid not even a week old, McCoy._

“How much did you hear?” He asked after settling his butt on the edge of his desk.

“Enough. I figured I'd be doing better work in here, trying to figure out what's going on with them.”

“Find anything?”

“No, but I got your terminal back up, at least. Still can't connect to off-site databases, but I’ve been scouring the _Enterprise’s_. All I found on osteoporosis was on geriatric cases, or cases from injury. Not newborns.”

McCoy grunted, unsurprised. “Try keywords like brittle bone disease disease, Osteogenesis imperfecta... profound skeletal hypomineralization... osteomalacia... hell even hypophosphatasia. It's something genetic, if their whole species is suffering from it. Not just situation specific to what Cygnus and these kids went through.”

What McCoy really wanted to do right now was just curl up in a ball on the sofa, maybe steal back his quilt, maybe even the other chick too for a good cuddle, and pretend to be napping so that no one outside the door bothered him for oh... maybe the next eight hours.

Instead he leaned against his back wall and watched over Uhura's shoulder as her nimble fingers and quick eyes filtered through his database at a speed to rival the automated search program.  She queued up files, sliding them over to the second window without a glance, her mind obviously on picking up any relevant data before whittling it down.

“Damn, I wish I had access to a major cortex right now. We're so far out I can't do a call out without some major delays.”

“That's hoping we get the communication relays up at all,” Nyota grumbled. “If Scotty can't get things working on our end, we're going to be headed back for the last deep space station.”

McCoy blinked at the back of her head. “Shit. You're right. If 'Fleet can't contact us, we can't contact them, ‘regs say we've got to head back to the nearest base.” He passed a hand through his hair, grimacing at the greasy feel. “How far away is it?”

“Warp eight?” Her fingers stilled over the glass panel.  “A week. Not that Jim'd like to waste the dilithium on backtracking.”

“And then another week at max warp back to here to pick the search up again,” McCoy said, fingers swirling small circles in Number One’s down. “How long do you think they'll let us keep searching for his people? You talk with with the Brass more than I do.”

She chuckled sadly. “Get talked _at_ , you mean. They haven't given a deadline yet. It helps that Jim and Spock have been taking it... slow. We've been scanning the areas we've passed, laying down beacons, charting local anomalies, and as much as these away missions to potential planets haven't given us anything but patients for you, we’ve been fulfilling our primary mission. To explore, meet new people, chart this part of the galaxy.”

“You said 'yet.' I don't like the sound of 'yet.'”

Nyota nodded. “I don't either, Leonard. But it's there. This is the region we're supposed to be in, but the search radius Spock plotted out is taking us off course.”

“Shit.”

She turned his chair and put a gentle hand on his forearm. Concern lined her face. “Leonard, don't worry about it. Jim and Spock and I and everyone else are working on it. We're going to make it happen. We'll get Cygnus home.”

“It's been over a month now, Ny. A month with no real leads. And us going around in circles. How the hell did his ship pop into existence a month away from his home?”

“We've been running around in circles,” she said with a little smirk. “If we went in a straight line from here to where we found him, it'd only take a couple hours. Just keep doing what you do, it helps.”

McCoy snorted.

“No, really! It does! There's been an increase in data requests from the VSA, a few medical and veterinary universities; your office is at the forefront not only of techniques to get Cygnus back in working order, but the treatments that you and Spock are working out to deal with all the brain issues is sparking interest back home!”

“The data on Spock's 'treatments' hasn't even _gotten_ home yet, let alone had enough time to 'spark interest.'”

“Well, it will. And when the VSA has something to say about the matter, you know they'll be able to pull strings with the Brass and keep us out here for as long as we can. Maybe I'll talk to Cyg about what kind of resources his planet has... see if we can start opening up trade discussions?”

“He's an engineer, Ny, not an ambassador. He doesn't have the authority to do that.”

“Well he's an ambassador now. He's the only representative of his planet we got, and we might as well make use of him.”

McCoy sighed in defeat. “So, we make it strategically valuable to keep looking for his home, rather than just a good samaritan run.”

“Exactly.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Nyota.”

She grinned and swiveled his seat back around to start the search up again.

With each new entry she pulled aside, his brain catalogued and started pulling up different treatment regimens. If – _when –_ they got the database link operational again, he'd need to do a hell of a lot of searching through the other various known species. Ideally, he'd test out several treatment methods before using it on his precious cargo.

And all of it'd take time. Time he doesn't have, if the hatching of Number Three and Number F- the latest one, indicated anything.

_A week to get back to Deep Space Station Two. And how long for repairs? No, I'd be able to requisition one of their computers while Scotty and his team work. Damn it'll be a bear getting data and running it back to the ship. I could take over their medbay.... It'll mean I'll need Scotty's clean-up crew to do a full decon._

_Well, I guess not, since Cyg's got a full skin on now. Better safe than sorry._

_A week. Damn._

_And that's if we can get Jim and the hobgoblin back in one piece soon._

“I'm not seeing anything good, Leonard. Please tell me you're thinking up some more optimistic ideas back there.”

“Trying to.”

_A week before I could even diagnose the problem. A week until I have data that might lead to a diagnosis, when this might very well be something new that no one's seen before off of his planet._

_Damn._

_A disease, a genetic disease, that an entire population suffers from. It's going to be a dominant gene... couldn't be a localized person-to-person mutation, otherwise there's no way it'd be something they all suffered from._

_Why do_ all _the girls have it though? Is it the same planetside, or just something this clutch is suffering from? Sex-linked chromosomal abnormality..._

“We need to run a full DNA sequence on his species.”

“Well, we have Cygnus, and the lab-”

“No, I mean his whole species. I don't have enough of a sample with just Cyg.”

Her finger stilled again. “You don't have just Cyg, you've got the kids too. And the eggs. You can take a sample from them.”

“Wide pool of data there,” McCoy grumbled. He stroked the bit of fluff clinging to his lapel. “But better than nothing. Don't tell Cyg though, will you? I don't want to get his hopes up.”

She nodded and bent back to her task.

_One clutch. All closely related, so not much variation... but if their mother was from a different region than Cygnus, then at least there will be significant contrast between his genetic data and hers. If I code his first, then run an elimination protocol between their genetics and his, then I'll have a clearer idea of the mother... between all of them, I might be able to get a full code of her, actually. But if it is species-wide, and she's survived to adulthood, then there's got to be a clue there._

McCoy groaned and rubbed his temple. _Maybe with another month and a Deep Space Station's supercomputers at my disposal._

_...or one Vulcan with a specialty in genetics._

“Damn, we need Spock and Jim back here.”

“Had an idea?”

He snorted. “Yes. Not a good one. And I don't have the right personnel on this ship, even if I did. Or enough resources.”

“What do you need?”

“A wing and a prayer?” He suggested with an angry smirk twisting his lips.

Uhura leaned back in his chair again and met his eyes levelly.

“What do you need, Leonard? I'll find a way to make it work.”

“I need a computer to analyze all of their genetic code. This machine?” McCoy tapped his in-desk screen. “Can analyze one human's genetic sequence in about half a day. That's without me trying to use it to write reports or do any of my other work. Problem is, that's with a human baseline to compare to and draw from to speed things up. I haven't even done a run to see how many chromosomes they have.”

“Requisition astrometrics,” she said without hesitation. “While we're in orbit, their computers aren't in use. And if our communications beacons are down, then their sensors are going to be down as well. They use the same conduits.”

“If their sensors are don't, won't they be busy trying to fix them?”

She nodded. “Exactly. Just because their eyes and ears are down, doesn't mean that the brain isn't functioning. Massive CPU blocks ready to go.  And if we do end up backtracking for repairs-” she tapped the little error code pulsing in the lower corner of his screen, informing him that his machine still couldn't connect with the outside universe “-then you can at least be making the best use of the time.”

His mind kicked into low gear, fighting for momentum. “Yes. Yes! That could work. I just need a way to get our programs put on their systems-”

She waved him off and opened a channel to the bridge. “Hey, Scotty? Got a requisition for you.”

“Cannae it wait, lass? We've got a bit of mess up 'ere!”

“When you've got the time, Scotty. It's important, but we want Kirk and Spock back safe first. Maybe send a few techs down to the medlab? We should be able to get it done with a little rewiring.”

“Aye, lass. I'll see to it.”

She closed the communication with a bit of a smile. “There. Knowing our good Chief Engineer, we'll have someone down in a few minutes.”

“Think you can stay and help them set up?”

Her smile warmed, finally reaching her yes. “Thought you'd never ask.”


	28. Chapter 28

_ Computer. Start dictation. _

_ Chief Medical Officer's log. Day... what the hell day is it again? Right. Stardate 2259.28.7. _

_ Daily report and log to be forwarded to Starfleet Medical with the usual data packets. _

_ Note to self, find out the new routing number. There's bound to be a new one up once Scott gets that cobbled together long-range transmitter of his working. Doesn't help that every time we drop another buoy I've got to remember a whole  _ ** [redacted]  ** _ new series of  _ ** [redacted] ** _. _

_ Copies to the Denobulan records, Earth Central, New Vulcan Science Academy, American Association of Medical Universities, Earth-Vulcan Ambassador Sarek, et al yadda yadda look up the list later. Oh, and Doctor Valarie, she'll want to hear the good news too. I think she's over at the National Canadian Farm Veterinary school now. _

** [pause dictation] **

** [time duration, four minutes] **

** [resume dictation] **

_ If you've skipped over the last few records to find out about the hatching, I'll recommend you go on back and reread the logs in order. I know you folks back home are getting them in chunks. Probably a week and a half at a time, right? Considering how far we are from known space. Know it's tempting, but don't. _

_ So far we've got three out of the shell, healthy and eatin' like horses. _

_ With Cyg up, we got the chance to grill him on what we should be feeding them. Sounds like his tribe did a bit of penguin treatment. Dad stays on the eggs, brothers go for a swim and get fish – or what we're guessing is fish – chewing, swallowing, digesting, and throwing it back up for the kids when they get home, and doing rotations as to who's getting the food. Well, back in the day, anyway. Apparently his dad paid for fresh to be delivered in. _

_ His system isn't up to digesting solids yet – I've updated the intravenous nutrition data tables appendix for those interested, document G42 – so we can't have him pre-chewing for the kids yet. Even if he could eat enough for them, he doesn't have the bacteria in his gut to do the job – which is what the kids really need. Until we can get a sample of a healthy digestive tract to draw from, we're doing a synthetic mash that we've flavored with fish oil. Cyg took a little taste, says it's close enough. _

_ And, no, I'm not offering to chew for him. There's a lot of things I'll do for a patient, but throwing up on cue isn't one of them. _

_ Thanks to medical complications I'll explain later, we've decided to put the remainder of the clutch in stasis. I know the research just isn't there for this – especially on non-humans. Or non-adults. Or, hell, eggs. _

_ But the way I see it, we had two choices. Stasis, get a little more time for the thinktanks back home, or up here for that matter, to come up with a solution. Or, we watch all the rest of them... fail. _

** [pause dictation] **

** [time duration, one hour, twelve minutes] **

** [resume dictation] **

_ Cygnus is being his usual stoic self. Could give some Vulcans I know a run for their money. According to him, it's simply an honor – an unlikely statistical anomaly – that he'd ever see a daughter come from one of his eggs. His first-hatched gives him enough pride to buoy his spirits. Somewhat. _

_ He's amused at the short-hand names us poor humans have been throwing about. Number One, Number Two, Number Three. Apparently they sound more poetic in his language, and they typically use “placeholder” names anyway, until the whole clutch is hatched and ready for their first meal together, which is when they're supposed to be given their “social names” or what their friends or classmates will call them. I guess “nicknames” would be a closer analogy back on Earth. He mentioned something about private names, but didn't clarify. _

_ I'll get it out of him, but nice-like. I can already hear the keys clacking back home from the Xeno-Soc Department already. Give it a break, will ya? _

_ Technically, we should have waited on One-through-Three until the whole lot is out of the shell, but since I put the rest in stasis... Ugh. Well, let's just say Cyg and I had a  _ very quiet _ argument about how my medical crap supersedes his religious/cultural crap and then we didn't talk to each other until I brought over that faux-fish paste for him to try. _

_ Uhura thinks he's going to save naming them “officially” for when they're all hatched – or not – and our placeholder names will have to do. _

** [pause dictation] **

** [time duration, two minutes] **

** [resume dictation] **

_ So, in my last log I got up to when we woke Cyg up for Number Fo- ah... the one who would have been the forth, without Vulcan assistance. _

_ Yes, it was a medical necessity, before the delegation from the VSA start complaining. As our First Officer will no doubt collaborate, the only logical course was to revive our patient on the slim chance he knew what… illness was causing the distress on the little one, and if there was any treatment he knew about. Unlikely, with the current evidence, I know, since he was an engineer, not a medical professional, and this is his first clutch. But, according to his earlier statements, he did assist his father with his siblings, so it was a better chance than none, which is where we stood without Cygnus' presence. _

_ Also, not that it's a concern to … individuals who lack … who have … Look. For us poor emotional beings, we need to say good-bye. Through all the pain and torment, those kids were the only thing keeping our patient alive. The need to protect them. I'm not going to try to explain it further, 'cause it's just coming out like sh- like the ramblings of an emotional human, which I'm certain you're tired of reading about anyway at this point. _

_ We have decided to keep Cygnus awake, for the time being. His stress levels would have gone through the roof if we tried to knock him out again. Not certain we'd be able to, that he'd let us. _

_ To satisfy the curiosity of those interested, see attachment A12 of included graphs and and continued observations with data on continual use of induced coma and mind meld as the treatment plan for synaptic cascade failure. _

_ All-in-all, he's doing better. I'd rather he was under meld, but without Spock around, there's only so much that can be expected. _

_ For those uninformed on mind melds in general, see attachment C19; Spock's been keeping detailed records and he does a good job describing what's going on between their skulls. _

_ Without Spock here, he's having occasional epileptic fits. As... distressing as they are, to patient and caretakers, the randomized neural firing pattern seems to be performing “resets” naturally and correcting his neurons back to a healthier firing pattern. _

_ I'm in the dark at this point. I'm not immune to his distress. All I can do is hold his hand, wedge in a bite plate to keep him from cracking his teeth or biting his tongue, and sooth everyone's nerves when the episode burns itself out. _

_ The violence, duration, and frequency have no discernible pattern, but I keep hoping things'll calm down in time. _

_ At the very least, he's up and interacting with the kids. We've got to be careful, the hatchling's claws are sharper than his new skin can handle, and any little scratch might trigger an immune response. Which, as the medical folks reading this log will be able to tell the Brass reading this log, would mean that his body would start rejecting all of the transplants. Bones. Organs. Nerves. Skin. All the grafts might be derived from his DNA, but it's new coded and grown in vats designed for much different structures. Everything's just a little off, and we're tricking the original parts with drugs into thinking he's still in one piece. A careful balancing act. Given enough time, enough new cells will replace the old, his body won't know the difference and we'll be able to wean him off... but we're talking years here. _

_ As you can guess, that would spell disaster. _

_ Nyota – that is, Lieutenant Uhura – came up with the “burping blanket” suggestion. Basically, just enough cloth for them to cling to. Makes clean up a lot easier too. We just have to make sure that Cyg doesn't move too much and accidentally dislodge one of them. _

_ Luckily, or not depending on how you look at it, he's in so much pain that every movement apparently feels like searing hot needles are getting shoved into his bones. Not good for morale, but it does restrict his movements considerably. _

_ With in tarnation- _

_ What's that noise out there? _

_ Keep it down will- _

_ Oh for crap's sake. JIM! _

_ What the hell happened down there!? _

_ I swear, one of these days I'm going to put a leash on you and  _ ** [redacted] ** _. _

** [two hours of superfluous data and background noise removed] **

** [resume dictation] **

_ Well, as you might've guessed, our illustrious Captain and First Officer have decided to grace the medbay with their presence. _

_ Yet again. _

_ It seems this planet wasn't Cygnus' home. Who woulda thunk it, what with the bombs. _

_ I swear. There has got to be a better way to be going about this. _

_ At least this time  _ I _ wasn't planetside. Spock's got some... interesting marks on him, and neither he nor Jim seem all that interested in elaborating. In fact, I can't even get the security team to fess up. _

_ Looks like I'll be bribing Mr. Scott down in engineering to crack into their logs and- Erm. Not that I ever do that. Because if it were a medical emergency I'd just use my override codes. _

_...can't fault a human for being curious. Our greatest trait, and the most likely thing to get us in trouble. _

_ Crap, where was I? _

_ Burping blanket. Right. _

_ All this is second hand, 'cause the  _ ** [redacted] ** _ and I aren't the greatest of pals right now, but he told Uhura that the kids are supposed to be little burs in our sides. On our sides. Whatever.  Basically, for the first couple months, or closest equivalent we can figure out, there really isn’t much personality or anything of that sort.  They just cling on, watch the world around them, and absorb.  Kinda like human babies, except if they’re crying or making a fuss they’re more likely to be eaten by some extinct predator creature or drop off their parents feathers. _

_ I wonder if that’s part of the low birth rate?  Not that these little mites are heavy (See attachment R7 for updated growth charts) but enough of them clinging on ya and it’d get cumbersome.  _

_ Hmm. Might explain why Cyg has such developed hands, even with wing-like appendages.  Like the uh… _ ** [redacted]  ** _ oxotle bird? Horizon? Some bird from the Former Republic of the United Amazon.  Reminder to self, once we’re in range, look up that damn bird’s name and tag it for research.  Extinct, of course, but I remember from Bio 101 it was considered a throw-back.  Chicks had wing-digits that weren’t set for flying, but climbing, so they could get out of trouble, and once the feathers grew enough to get in the air… did they atrophy, or just get concealed? _

** [redacted.] ** _ Doesn’t matter. If Cyg’s people gave up flying for climbing, a few million years ago, hands’d be the primary necessity, wings a secondary form of gliding for escape or somesuch, and the chicks wouldn’t overburden them for take off. _

‘ _Til I get more data to back up that hypothesis I’ll just keep it as a running theory._

** [pause dictation] **

** [time duration, forty-seven minutes] **

** [resume dictation] **

_ Yeah, Cygnus doesn’t know.  Figured.  Was worth it to ask.  Not like human evolutionary biology is completely opaque to us developed creatures either.   _

_ Cyg looks better for the prospect of the hog-  _ ** [redacted] ** _ Spock’s return.  Along with the more superficial injuries, Spock has a mild concussion to go with the Captain’s broken wrist, so I’ve had to delay any further treatments for him on hold until Spock’s brain swelling goes down.  M’Benga is treating that now, and the numbers I read in passing looked good, but I won’t put pressure on him yet. _

_ For all of my complaints, having the Commander on board has been an asset.  Not that every Starfleet ship  _ needs _ to have a Vulcan on board.  But we could do worse for the sake of diversity. _

** [pause dictation] **

** [time duration, five hours, two minutes] **

** [resume dictation] **

_ It’s amazing to think it, but it’s about time we start working out a therapy plan for our patient.  Now that we have a complete layer of skin, it’s time to start on physical therapy.  Along with the usual exercises designed to reverse the muscle atrophy, I think it will do his mind some good to start working on manipulating small objects again.   _

_ He’s scared of hurting his children.  He hasn’t said as much, not to me, but I know the look.  I’ve handed enough alien babies over to new parents on this trip, and even more back in my internships days.  He’s got that ‘I’ve got no clue what to do,’ look in his eyes, and then those muscle spasms hit.  If those don't’ subside completely, we’re going to have to work out some solutions for dealing with them. _

_ If they were more minor tremors, I’d think turning that burping blanket into an apron with pockets to hold them might work; keep them secure enough for the duration.  But… well.  We’ll figure something out. _

_ Mr. Scott is still working on his relay system.  From the electric burns I treated last night, it’s turning out to be more complicated than we originally thought.  Of course, sleep deprived and pissed off at the whole command team, I flippantly said something along the lines of ‘I bet Cyg could do a better job at that.’ _

_ Well Mr. Scott, of course, thought that this sounded like a grand idea and next thing I know I’m sterilizing circuit boards and micro soldering tools. _

_ Cygnus has dived into this distraction head first, and now I’ve got engineers and communications officers hanging around the office talking with him. _

_ It’s loud. _

_ And boisterous. _

_ And I’m hopeful. _

_ It’s clear to all of us that he’s frustrated at his loss of dexterity, but every so often there’s some bark of excitement and a new flurry of activity.  I think the mental stimulation, doing things with his hands again, something more than just going through our archives and playing Chekov’s games on the PADD, will help him recover mentally, even if physically it  might not ever be quite the same. _

_ I’m hopeful. _

  
  
  


 


End file.
